


Dykes of War

by orphan_account



Category: Historical RPF, Original Work, World War II - Fandom
Genre: Adultery, Alternate Universe - All Female, Alternate Universe - Ancient Greece & Rome, Alternate Universe - Gender Changes, Alternate Universe - Historical, Alternate Universe - Medieval, Alternate Universe - Modern Setting, Alternate Universe - Nazi Germany, Alternate Universe - World War I, Alternate Universe - World War II, American Civil War, Anal Fingering, Ancient Greece, Assassins vs. Templars, Battle, Breastfeeding, Cheating, Concentration Camps, Cunnilingus, D-Day, Dark Ages, F/F, Female Ejaculation, Fight Sex, Fighting Kink, Fluff and Smut, French Kissing, Holocaust, Interracial Relationship, Invasion of Normandy, Iraq War, Knights - Freeform, Lemon, Lesbian Sex, Middle Ages, Multiple Orgasms, Nazi Germany, Nazis, Oral Sex, Outdoor Sex, Peloponnesian War, Rimming, Smut, Spartans, Special Air Service, Swordfighting, Swordplay, Templars, Terrorists, The Crusades, Trench Warfare, Vaginal Fingering, Vietnam War, War, World War I, World War II, World Wars
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2019-10-09
Updated: 2019-11-15
Packaged: 2020-11-28 05:57:06
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Rape/Non-Con
Chapters: 20
Words: 23,709
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/20961599
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/orphan_account/pseuds/orphan_account
Summary: Dykes of War is half-alternate historical fiction, half-lesbian lemon.It's an anthology series that takes place on multiple historical battlefields, in an alternate universe where warriors are traditionally women instead of men. Despite being sworn enemies, a handful of these warrior women find love within themselves, through sexuality.EPISODES:*Episode 1:World War II (Eastern Front)*Episode 2:Iraq War*Episode 3:Peloponnesian War*Episode 4:Vietnam War*Episode 5:World War I*Episode 6:American Civil War*Episode 7:The Third Crusade*Episode 8:World War II (Western Front)*Episode 9:Syrian Civil Warand many more to come!





	1. Battle of Stalingrad

February 1, 1943.

Stalingrad, Russia.

The infamous Siberian winter hounded the cold and miserable city without mercy, sending gusts of biting wind and snowfall wisping through its desolate streets. A lone Soviet soldier named Katyusha sat in a building bombed-out by the distant battle raging around her. She was huddled up next to a crackling burn barrel with her trusty Mosin-Nagant. Her beige trenchcoat was caked in snowflakes, she had nothing but a field cap to warm her head, and her hands were dressed in black fingerless gloves as they reached out for the fire's dancing flames. After months of fighting alongside them, in her own hometown no less, Katyusha got separated from her band of sisters in the 38th Rifle Division, leaving her behind in Nazi-occupied territory with nothing else to do but hide from German patrols and scavenge for warmth. Desperate for a glimmer of happiness, she reached into the lapels of her coat and pulled out her wallet. She opened it, and in its plastic pouch was a black-and-white photo of her and her forbidden lover, Olga, from '41. It was a somber reminder of how simple and warm times were before the invasion.

Katyusha's bottom lip quivered at the thought of what had happened to her girlfriend in these months of misery and chaos. All she could do was hope she found a safe place to hide. Just then, the pebbles on the floor began rattling. A rumbling crept into the peripherals of the Cossack's earshot, and she could faintly feel the accompanying vibrations. Tucking her wallet away, she swept up her rifle and rushed over to a shattered window, crouching down next to it with her Mosin at the ready. She cautiously peeked out and found the approaching tremor to belong to the mighty engines of a German convoy trampling through Stalingrad's empty streets. Fearsome Panzers and hulking Tiger tanks slowly treaded down the road outside Katyusha's hideout, their presence unmissable. Marching alongside them was a section of German soldiers. These weren't normal German soldiers, however; they weren't grey-clad Wehrmacht infantry like Katyusha was used to. No, these were Hitler's handpicked elite. The Nazi Special Forces. The Waffen-Schutzstaffel.

They were jacketed in trenchcoats as black as the night, with inky Stahlhelms and blood red Nazi sleeve insignia. The worst of the worst. Just the sight of them sent chills down Katyusha's spine, vividly recalling all the horror stories she heard about their war crimes. Stomping in the very back was the biggest and scariest of them all. She had to be the biggest, when effortlessly carrying that 80-pound flammenwerfer on her back. And she had to be the scariest, with that soulless gas-mask removing all humanity from her exterior. Not wanting to be seen by the hulking menace, Private Makarova ducked out of sight. Her butt bumped into the wooden dresser behind her, knocking off a family photo. The frame hit the floor and its glass shattered loudly, which made Katyusha's heart freeze in her chest. The flametrooper stopped. The rest of the Panzer patrol didn't hear it, but the flammen soldier did. Her head slowly craned over her shoulder, looking at the hollowed remains of an apartment complex. She raised her flamethrower and warmed her weapon up, unleashing a brief puff of fire.

Snow crunched beneath her boots as the flametrooper approached, and Katyusha whimpered in fear as she readied to make a break for it. The pyromaniac stood before the building, savoring its final moments before ruthlessly torching it just to be sure. A firestorm erupted from her weapon, bathing the building in a tsunami of flames. Screaming in primal terror, Katyusha dived out of the way and watched as, within seconds, her surroundings were engulfed by hellfire. The building caved in as the blaze ripped it to shreds, and she narrowly avoided the burning rafters and frames that fell out of the structure and tried to crush her. The building fell apart around her and she had to race out the back of the smoldering obstacle course for her life. The reflection of the blaze crackled in the flametrooper's goggles as she watched the destruction from a safe distance. She was about to tromp off to catch up with the Panzer section she accompanied, but heard Katyusha's shrieks of terror underneath the tons of burning rubble.

The other SS soldiers heard it too, and followed their Sturmscharführer as they abandoned the armored convoy to instead chase the sounds of screaming survivors. Meanwhile, Katyusha dove out the back door, the wall falling to pieces underneath her weight. Landing in a faceful of snow, she twisted over onto her back and watched dishearteningly as her "home" was torn down in a fiery inferno. She lived in that building for weeks. She truly did start to see it as a home, but it was gone forever now, stamped out by the needless cruelty of the Waffen-SS. At least she got the warmth she wanted... As if things couldn't get any worse, the SS patrol rounded the corner, finding the source of the screams. Several shadows loomed over Katyusha as she sat helplessly in the snow. Her heart sank as these bogeywomen surrounded her, fingers on the triggers. The leader of the unit was a Nazi officer. She had a peaked cap instead of a Stahlhelm, a Luger pistol instead of an MP-40, a skirted dress suit instead of army fatigues, and a smug expression instead of an emotionless scowl.

_"Bring sie zum nächsten Kriegsgefangenenlager,"_ she ordered her troops, fog spilling out her mouth with every syllable.

One of the Nazi thugs detained Katyusha by knocking her to the ground with the butt of her gun. Her open wallet slipped out of her coat and slid across the snow. She instinctively reached for the prized memento, but the Nazis were alerted by the sudden movement and aimed their machine guns threateningly. With the Red Army riflewoman frozen under the watchful eye of several loaded barrels, the officer crouched down and investigated the wallet, curiously looking at the suggestive photo of Katyusha and Olga.

_"Hm. Auf zweiter Gedanke...**Bring sie nach Auschwitz.**"_

The last thing Katyusha registered that morning was a boot to the face.


	2. Auschwitz

A day-long concussion later, Katyusha gradually stirred awake to the sounds of a train chugging. She moaned groggily as her eyelids slowly rose and she could take in her surroundings. She had been knocked out on the floor of an empty boxcar, its interior wooden. She was entirely stripped of her Red Army fatigues, attire replaced with nothing but a black-and-white striped jumpsuit. Curiously, her left breast was marked by a black, upside-down triangle. She was wearing it like a badge. Makarova was in a moving train, being shipped off somewhere like cargo. Memories began leaking back into her concussed brain, and she remembered the SS officer said something about "Auschwitz". 

Katyusha didn't know what it was, but judging from the name, it was likely somewhere in Poland. Probably some sort of internment camp for political prisoners, like Stalin's gulags. Hunched in the corner and twiddling her toes, Katyusha sat quietly for a boring but apprehensive hour before finally, the locomotive started squealing to a halt. Once it crawled to dead stillness, the boxcar's sliding door was thrown open. Katyusha was expecting to be blinded from light spilling in, but there was no light. The weather outside was as dark and dreary as the train's dim interior, thanks to the heavy clouds hanging overhead that sprinkled snow.

_"Herauskommen!"_ barked the Nazi soldier that had opened the door, menacingly pointing her MP-40. 

Katyusha stepped out, the iced-over concrete ground stinging her bare feet. She was standing at the entrance of a fenced-in, one-road settlement of several brick barracks, their roofs caked in snow. She looked up. Hanging over her were naked, ice-encrusted trees and a black gate with fourteen letters spelled out.

_"**ARBEIT MACHT FREI**"_

A labor camp...Katyusha was thwacked in the back with the butt of an SMG, shoving her forward and deeper into Auschwitz. She was marched down the cold street of the concentration camp and looked at the fence that had enclosed her there. It was made entirely of barbed wire, and was probably electrified. She felt like an animal being herded into a pig-pen. Or a slaughterhouse. Katyusha began seeing fellow prisoners, dressed in the same striped uniform she was. They had badges too, but theirs were shaped like the Star of David. They were working together digging a drainage ditch into the snow-glazed ground, shivering hopelessly as Nazi guards held them at gunpoint. The SS thug that had been escorting Katyusha yanked out a shovel that had been stuck in the ground and threw it her prisoner, who catched it clumsily. 

_"Fangen Sie an zu graben! Wenn du aufhörst, bist du tot!"_

Huffing miserably, Katyusha struck the shovel into the ditch and began digging. She dug, and dug, and dug, and dug. Her muscles ached, her body became sore, and she wasn't even spared the courtesy to sweat thanks to the biting cold. Seconds became minutes, minutes became hours. She could feel frostbite creeping into her fingers and toes, and it soon felt like she had hypothermia _and_ heat exhaustion at the same time. Her fellow inmates shared a similar pain, and they had been working for even longer than her. One of them finally broke down in tears and made a run for the nearest fence to jump. With nothing left to lose, a couple more ran after her in an escape attempt. Katyusha was blinded as the spotlight of a watchtower switched on and bared down onto her like the sun itself. The booming, disembodied voice of a Nazi officer echoed across the entire camp as she bellowed an order over a megaphone.

_"**Die schmutzigen Juden versuchen zu fliehen! TÖTE ES!**"_

Several MP-40s were raised and Katyusha hit the deck as bullets began flying. She clenched her watery eyes and covered her ears until the deafening gunfire ceased. She looked up and saw the campground littered with the corpses of the attempted escapees, their striped uniforms riddled with bloody bullet holes. The Slavic woman was pulled from up off the ground by her hair by a Nazi guard. 

_"Weiter arbeiten!"_ she growled before marching over to the corpses to help her comrades dispose of them.

Katyusha was expecting the bodies to be dragged away, but instead, they were dumped in the hole she had been digging. Katyusha wasn't digging a ditch. _She was digging her own grave._ It soon sunk into her: She was going to die here. She always had nightmares about being shipped off to a death camp, after her childhood Kulak friend was abducted by the Gulag. Now it was coming true... Begrudgingly picking her shovel back up, the hopeless Russian looked aside one of the brick buildings that towered over her. Her attention was caught by one of the camp's officers standing in its doorway, seductively wagging her gloved finger to beckon Katyusha forth. She was a perfect Aryan. Bleached hair flowing out of her peaked cap, icy blue eyes, snow white skin, and flawless facial structure. 

It was almost like a mirage. Her angelic body contrasted with her black, ugly SS uniform. Katyusha was confused, but followed after the officer's jackbooted footsteps nonetheless. She entered what seemed like an administrative office building, where there was at least warmth, and was ushered into a featureless interrogation room. The officer kindly wrapped a toasty blanket around her body from the shoulders, Katyusha flinching at this sudden display of compassion. The Soviet and the Nazi were seated across from each other between a table, one littered with files and documents the officer flipped through.

_"Hello,"_ she greeted in fluent Russian, which Katyusha hadn't heard in what felt like an eternity. It was admittedly a relief, to finally be spoken to in her native tongue again. _"You're Private Katyusha Makarova of the Red Army, correct? I'm Unterscharführer Wagner, Waffen-SS. But you can call me Elsa."_

_"Go to Hell, fascist,"_ Katyusha spat, her voice heavy with sickness and hatred while she still shivered in cold. _"Drop the pretenses of politeness. I know you're a monstrous war criminal!"_

_"No, no, you don't understand!"_ She sighed ashamedly. _"Please listen to me, fräulein. It's not what you think; this isn't an interrogation. I have something to tell you. I was raised by Hitler Youth."_

_"Hitler Youth?"_

_"Nazi Girl Scouts, essentially. There, I was conditioned and brainwashed into the perfect killing machine. For as long as I could remember, I've heard nothing but endless rants about 'Lebensraum' or the 'Jewish Question'. I'm sick to my stomach of it. For fear of my life, I've pretended to share my comrades' virulent rhetoric, but my disgust for the Third Reich has only grown with every atrocity I witness. This camp is an echo chamber of murderous racism. I've been starving for someone I could voice my true feelings towards without fear of being shot for 'treason'."_

_"Oh..."_ Katyusha understood, blushing with flattery over a woman opening up to her like this. It reminded her of the time Olga first confessed her feelings. _"But...Why me? Of all the inmates in this camp, why did you choose me to open up to?"_

_"Well...Because of that little black triangle on your uniform."_


	3. Arbeit Macht Frei

Katyusha looked down at the badge on her breast. _"What about it? What does it mean?"_

Elsa smiled at Katyusha's naivety. _"Well, technically it means you're asocial. But that's just a euphemism for,"_ she interrupted herself with a small giggle. _"...Lesbian..."_

Katyusha's blush deepened. _"Oh...That explains why the officer who detained me sent me here once she saw the photo in my wallet..."_

_"An old girlfriend, I'm guessing."_

_"Yeah..."_

_"What was her name?"_

_"...Olga."_

Elsa consoled Katyusha by gently placing her hand upon hers. _"It's nothing to be ashamed of, fräulein. Love between two women is a wonderful thing. The Nazis' minds are simply clouded with irrational hate."_

_"...You're lesbian too, aren't you, Elsa?"_

_"...Yes..."_ She closed her eyes and sighed in relief. _"God, that feels so good to say! You're the first person I've ever admitted that to! Not even my parents know. They'd disown me if they did, or worse..."_

"Well," Katyusha sighed, gearing up for a bold statement. _"Elsa, I'd...be happy to help you explore your sexuality further...If you'd like..."_

Elsa's face went blank with shock for a second, before curling into a glowing smirk. Her wildest dreams were gradually coming true. _"That...That would be wonderful, Katyusha!"_

The two women rose from their chairs, crossing the table to meet face-to-face. Katyusha lovingly grabbed Elsa's cheeks and placed a gentle kiss upon her forehead. Then another upon her lips. There was no tongue, not yet. Just two pairs of lips lovingly locking together in a soft and sweet marriage. In a handsy embrace, Elsa seized Katyusha by her chest with her black, leather gloves and tore her top open. Buttons flew everywhere. The black triangle was pried to the side to reveal a pair of perky, supple breasts underneath. Elsa almost drooled over this woman's beautiful bosom.

_"I've been waiting to do this for as long as I could remember..."_

Digging in, the ex-Nazi wrapped her lips around one of her Slavic lover's nipples and suckled from it greedily. Katyusha gasped at the sudden sensation and Elsa's sudden switch in demeanor. She had been so tender and graceful up until this point. Now she was feeding from her chest like a hungry animal. Katyusha gently placed her hand upon the Aryan's scalp, running her fingers through her silky blonde hair. She reached her neck back and moaned quietly. Katyusha felt secure in the interrogation room, but thought better safe than sorry and kept her voice down nonetheless. There was a voice scratching at the back of her head warning her that a Nazi guard could walk in any moment and have them both executed. Elsa heard it too. But the two ignored it, too consumed with lust. The Unterscharführer licked and squeezed Katyusha's pair of womanly organs, digging her leather fingertips into the several layers of squishy fat. It wasn't long before her entire chest glistened with spit. Elsa's mouth continued to fervently explore the Russian's body. 

She riddled her midriff with tender kisses on each of her abs, running across her trunk and up her neck. Katyusha's nape was a particular erogenous zone, and she shuddered in absolute bliss at the touch of Elsa's soft lips. The kisses had trailed to her face, finally landing on her mouth so the two pairs of lips could meet once more. Wanting to repay the favor, Katyusha took the reigns of the kiss. She seized the German by the face and passionately buried her tongue in her mouth as deep as it could go. The two women melted into one another as time stood still. Polar opposites, sworn enemies, connected by a kiss. Desperate to taste Katyusha even further and deeper, Elsa broke off the lip-lock and bobbed her head down towards her wet lap, pulling down her striped pants. Elsa burrowed her face in between the Soviet's legs and began eating her out with the same zeal with which she sucked her tits. Crippled with pleasure, Katyusha's back gave out and she fell, spreading out across the tabletop. She squirmed and writhed atop the table, biting her lip and finger while trying to silence her squeals. 

_"Stimmt irgendetwas nicht, Unterscharführer Wagner?"_ suddenly asked a voice from the other side of the interrogation room's door. 

Elsa shot up out from Katyusha's crotch, frozen and wide-eyed like a deer in headlights.

_"Ähm, n-nein, Rottenführer Werner!"_ she stuttered in response, barely able to keep her composure. _"... K-Kehre sofort zu deinem Posten zurück!"_

_"Ja, gnädige Frau!"_ the guard barked submissively before stomping off in her jackboots. 

Elsa sighed a breath of relief before cautiously returning to the cunnilingus she blessed her prisoner with. Katyusha seized two handfuls of her breasts, still wet with saliva, and began twisting her own nipples. Pleasure swelled in her loins and swelled in her chest, electrifying her whole body with ecstasy. After months of sitting alone in cold, bombed-out dumps, Katyusha felt the warmth she once felt in Olga's arms. It seemed so distant but so close. She looked down at Elsa as her tongue swirled around in her pussy, and the two's icy eyes met. They were entranced by one another's beautiful gaze, lost in the frozen landscapes of their irises. 

But the Slav had to clench her eyes when her hormones finally ignited into one explosive orgasm. Elsa sucked and choked on the squirt as it profusely spewed into her mouth, and the taste of the woman's shed pleasure were sweeter than the spoils of war could ever be. Katyusha went slump on the tabletop, mind spinning in the whimsical afterglow. Her toes twitched as they hung off the table, since Elsa was still thoroughly licking up every drop of Katyusha's volcanic squirt as it soaked her vulva, inner thighs, and ass cheeks. Her reproductive tract was extremely tender and sensitive after the debilitating orgasm. Katyusha's gorgeous tits jiggled atop her surging chest with every labored breath she drew. 

_"Oh, Katyusha~,"_ Elsa sighed contentedly as she rose to a stand. _"I couldn't have asked for a better woman to lose my virginity to."_

__

__

_"I've only felt this way about one other person before,"_ Katyusha replied after catching her breath, squeezing Elsa's hand lovingly. 

_"I'm so sorry for what my people did to yours. Razing your beautiful country and splitting up wonderful relationships..."_

_"It's okay, Elsa,"_ Katyusha assured, reaching up and sweeping some golden locks out of the officer's face. _"It's okay."_

The two seized one another in an embrace, desperate for each other's warmth. Their hugs, their kisses, their love. For a moment, Elsa and Katyusha forgot they were knees-deep in the worst war the world has ever seen. For a moment, Elsa and Katyusha forgot they were trapped in the middle of the worst atrocity in human history. For a moment, Elsa and Katyusha weren't Soviets or Nazis or warriors. Just women. Lovers. And they treasured that moment for the rest of their lives. 


	4. War on Terror

August 2, 2004.

Fallujah, Iraq. 

In the sandy wasteland between Baghdad and al-Fallujah, a small caravan of US soldiers patrolled the dirt roads of the Syrian Desert. It consisted of two Humvees that each carried three women, with an additional two marching alongside the military trucks as they drove at walking speed. The entire convoy, from the Humvees' paintjob to the soldiers' fatigues, was patterned in desert camouflage that blended them into the ocean of sand. The unit was sandwiched between the Tigris and Euphrates Rivers, policing the dustbowls of Mesopotamia. The sweltering sun reflected in the black sunglasses of one Corporal Bridges of the 75th Ranger Regiment. 

She reached up and lowered her beige neck gaiter, exposing her luscious lips so she could take a hefty swig from her water canteen. Through her tan gloves, she clenched a fully loaded, black M4 Carbine. She had a strong but thin build thanks to lugging around twenty pounds of gear all day, mainly thanks to her bulky bullet-resistant vest. Bridges also wore a pair of khaki shorts that made her long legs sun-cooked and glistening with sweat. It was the summer of 2004 and the Iraq War was seething in the Middle East, so the Rangers were shipped overseas and tasked with quelling the Iraqi Insurgency. The front Humvee's radio set suddenly crackled with static as an order from Command tuned in. 

_"Bravo Team, this is Overlord. Do you copy? Over."_

Sergeant Vasquez, the driver, plucked off the transceiver and spoke into it. _"Overlord, this is Bravo Team. We hear you loud and clear, over."_

_"Intel just got back. There's a compound a couple klicks northeast of your position operated by insurgents. Reported to be armed to the teeth. Orders are to terminate with extreme prejudice, over."_

_"Any idea what terrorist cell they belong to?"_ Private Keaton asked generally from the back-seat.

_"Taliban, al-Qaeda, ISIS; They're all the same,"_ Bridges 'answered' through the rolled-down window.

_"Understood, Overlord,"_ continued Vasquez. _"The compound will be captured by noon. Out."_

She ended the transmission and stomped down on the pedal. The Humvees ramped into high gear, kicking up entire duststorms with their back wheels as they skidded off with the directions they were given. The convoys raced in the sands of the Arab World, en-route to a jihadist safehouse. Within mere minutes, they had arrived at a terrorist compound hidden among the mountainous region of the Fertile Crescent. It was a small two-story building made of grey featureless concrete. Its old, stained walls were spray-painted with Arabic graffiti proclaiming things like _"**الله أكبر**"_ and _"**الموت لأمريكا**"_. 

It was surrounded by a seemingly abandoned Middle Eastern village clearly torn by war, with paved roads, sandstone buildings, and palm trees. Cars and walls of sandbags littered the streets, and most complexes were riddled with bullet holes. The two Humvees came to a screeching halt and eight jeep doors popped open. Beige-colored combat boots stepped out and stretched the legs they belonged to as they surveyed the insurgent hideout. Vasquez staked out the compound for a good moment, scanning its architecture and formulating a battle plan before communicating it with her squad. 

_"Alright...West and Carver, you breach that cellar door over there and clear the basement. Dunn and Keaton, you take the top floor. Bridges and I have the bottom floor. Pelayo and Macey, you two stay here and keep watchout."_ She racked her M4. _"Rangers lead the way."_

_"**Break!**"_

The squad split up and converged upon the building from different angles in a tactical siege. Bridges and Vasquez buried their shoulders into the opposite sides of the front door.

The sergeant whispered into her shoulder radio. _"Everyone in position?"_

She received two _"yes, ma'am's"_ over the transmission. 

_"Alright. Three...two...one... Breach!"_

Bridges slapped an explosive charge on the door. She and Vasquez looked away and held their breaths as they waited for the boom. The door was blown to smithereens by a shaped explosion. The two of them then swung into the emptied doorway, stepping through the smokescreen guns blazing. They had busted the downtime of a couple terrorists as they sat around a table, cleaning and loading their rifles. They looked like walking shadows, as they were donned from head-to-toe in intimidating black fatigues, balaclavas, and fingerless gloves. 

Reacting fast, the jihadists flipped the table to its side, sending a deck of cards flying everywhere like confetti. They armed themselves with their AK-47s while ducking behind the makeshift cover and blind-firing. Vasquez and Bridges aimed down their iron sights and unloaded their M4s into the table's face in return, riddling it with holes. The cards were torn up mid-air as dozens of bullets whizzed from every angle. Even more gunfire distantly echoed from below and above, lighting the entire compound up. Rifle triggers stopped being squeezed and the whole hideout was fogged up with a thin coat of smoke as the fighting had finally wound down. Dead terrorists littered every floor of the safehouse. 

_"Upstairs clear!"_

_"Downstairs clear!"_

_"Basement clear!"_

_"Keaton is hit!"_ Dunn alerted over the radio.

_"They just got me in the shoulder, I'll be fine..."_ weakly assured Keaton over the same line. 

_"Dunn, take Keaton back to the Humvee and get her patched up. Carver and West, sweep the rest of the town. Me and Bridges will survey the compound."_

Bridges had actually caught a bullet herself in the gunfight, but thanks to her ballistic vest, all it did was bruise her ribs. Lowering their weapons, the two Rangers began investigating the hideout like a crime scene. Though the room had no artificial lighting, plenty of scathing sunlight still poured in through the open windows. Vasquez looked at the two terrorists they had gunned down. Their lifeless bodies pooled the concrete floor in blood. The ground was littered with tattered playing cards and spent bullet casings, and the table's many holes still smoked. The walls were strewn with hung photographs of beheadings and Arabic newspaper clippings of the local terrorist attacks these insurgents were responsible for. Moving on, Vasquez twisted the knob to a supply closet and swung open the door. A jihadist leapt out from the pantry's shadows, dressed in a suicide vest with her thumb on the trigger. 

_"**ALLAHU AKBAR!**"___

_ __ _

_ __ _

_"**OH, SHIT!**"_ the two Rangers shrieked as they stumbled back.__

_ __ _

_ __ _

Right before the bomber could mash the button and blow all three of them to pieces, Bridges scrambled for her sidearm and landed a one-in-a-million shot on the circuit that linked the trigger to the TNT strapped to her chest. Bomb defused, Vasquez viciously tackled the dynamite-laden Islamist to the ground and ripped the explosive belt off of her as they wrestled. Shook by the near-death experience, Bridges slowly holstered her M9 while watching Vasquez blood-choke the terrorist into unconsciousness. 

_"Jesus Christ..."_ the corporal sighed, lightheaded with panic. 

Vasquez panted as she laid triumphantly beside the comatose mujahideen. Bridges helped pull her to her feet. _"Nice fucking shot, Bridges."_

_"What do you figure we should do with her, ma'am?"_

_"...Get me a car battery."___


	5. Allahu Akbar

Five minutes later, a bucket of cold water was splashed in the failed suicide bomber's face, shocking her awake and soaking her balaclava. Her wrists were bound behind her back by a pair of plastic handcuffs, and her ankles were duct-taped to the front legs of the metal chair she was seated upon. She squirmed and thrashed against her restraints, but was firmly confined. She was under an active light-bulb in the compound's otherwise dark, dank basement, still stained with her sisters' blood. In front of her stood Vasquez and Bridges. The latter held a pair of jumper cables, hooked up to a live car battery on the floor. The clamps sparked threateningly as she clenched them. 

_"You filthy infidels!"_ Farrah the terrorist snarled like a rabid dog, almost frothing at the mouth with vitriol and hatred. _"Allah will smite you all!"_

_"This bitch learned English just to insult us with it,"_ Bridges said, unfazed by the scathing resentment being shouted in her face. _"Gotta admire that."_

Vasquez chuckled at her corporal's sarcasm before turning her attention back to the prisoner. _"Listen. I know you're a fanatic and you **think** your faith is unbreakable, but I guarantee: It'll only take a couple prods from my friend's jumper cables here and you'll be squealing like a pig."_

_"Try me, American scum,"_ she spat with her Arabic accent.

Vasquez rolled her eyes behind her sunglasses. _"Same shit, different day. Alright, Bridges, give her a-"_

Suddenly, gunfire started crackling outside. 

_"Shit!"_ screamed a Ranger over the walkie-talkie. _"More of them just arrived! They have technicals; we're pinned down!"_

Vasquez armed herself with her M4 and quickly marched up the staircase that led up out of the cellar. _"Bridges, I'm gonna go provide some backup for our girls! You stay down here and see what you can get out of this insurgent!"_

Bridges's lips curled into a devilish smile behind her neck gaiter. She saluted and barked, _"Yes, ma'am!"_

The sergeant sprinted out the basement and closed the hatch behind her, leaving the perverted corporal and the restrained terrorist alone together. Bridges turned to her captive ominously.

_"So...I guess it's just the two of us now."_

_"My sisters will tear you American dogs apart!"_

Setting down the cables and switching off the battery, Bridges opened up Farrah's balaclava and revealed the rest of her pretty little face, deeply tanned with Arabic facial features. The terrorist immediately used this chance to spit her captor in the eyes. 

_"Guess I was asking for that,"_ the unamused Ranger muttered as she wiped the saliva off her sunglasses. 

_"Capitalist pig!"_

_"You know,"_ Bridges began, her voice getting eerily low. _"I was at Ground Zero during 9/11."_

Farrah forced a mocking laugh. _"Hahaha! Lucky! I would've killed to see you Western pigs suffer in person! I only saw it on television, cheering it on at every minute!"_

_"Yeah, me too,"_ Bridges said bluntly, shutting the terrorist up. _"I remember looking up at the Twin Towers and thinking 'This will be the perfect excuse to torture those ragheads in the desert.' And here we are, three years later. Time flies, doesn't it?"_

The vengeful New Yorker unbuttoned and unzipped her own khaki shorts, digging her thumbs into her waistband and spreading her fly wide open. This proudly bared her labia, glistening in the jihadist's face. Her cheeks went a rosy red that burned through her tan complexion, not expecting _this_ kind of torture...

_"W-What are you doing?!"_ Farrah demanded, flustered. _"Surely you're not...You infidels are more depraved than I thought!"_

_"Yeah yeah, says the terrorist. Shut up and start eating."_

Bridges seized the back of the Arab's head and buried her face into her pussy. Farrah choked and sputtered as her mouth was forced upon her interrogator's privates. The POW tried to pull away and resist, but Bridges had an inescapable hold on her head. With nothing else to do, she miserably swallowed her pride and did as Bridges told her. Her tongue raked up the Ranger's vaginal lips and reached inside to reluctantly swivel around, lapping up entire mouthfuls of wetness in the process. During all of this, muffled gunfire and explosions rocked the basement as a war between US Rangers and Iraqi terrorists stormed above.

Corporal Bridges craned her head back and groaned in a sick satisfaction. _"Fuck...This is better than Abu Ghraib...There's no way you haven't done this before, you're too good at it."_

Farrah broke out of Bridges' grasp, gasping and spitting. _"N-No! Homosexuality is a sin, condemned by Allah!"_

_"Hey, my God hates dykes too. We got a lot in common."_

Bridges pulled the mujahideen back in for another bout of cunnilingus, devolving the once proud, Allah-fearing woman to just another one of her bitches. She smiled at the terrorist's sheepish whines and whimpers muffled against her shaved crotch, humiliated beyond description. Not only was she sinning; a deep part of her actually kind of liked it. The sweet taste of Bridges's pussy was enslaving, and the way she shuddered and trembled against her tongue was arousing. Resisting the pleasure that upended her religious extremism, Farrah broke out once more, her lips dribbling.

_"I-I-I'll tell you what you want to know, okay?! We have another hideout two miles outside Samarra! Just please stop making me indulge in this degeneracy!"_

_"Huh? Oh, that's nice, dear, but I actually don't care about any info you have; I'm just trying to get off."_

The Ranger grabbed Farrah by her balaclava for a third and final time, pressing her lips down onto her vulva. The militiawoman was forced to tongue until her jaw ached. Bridges could feel a pit of gnawing pleasure build in her core. She stood on her toes and bucked her hips forward as she finally orgasmed right in the terrorist's mouth. Her vaginal muscles contracted and tightened, expelling as much squirt juice as they could muster. Farrah's brown eyes went wide and her cheeks swelled as her mouth was filled with an obscene amount of vaginal lubricant. The Islamist tore out of Bridges' grip, sniveling and hacking up the squirt she was waterboarded by. 

_"You filthy pig!"_ Farrah weakly whimpered, her chin dripping with juice. _"I've been shamed! Allah will never forgive me for this!"_

Bridges stood wearily with a hunch, panting quietly as a clear fluid ran out her shorts and down her leg. _"Fuck,"_ she caught her breath while buttoning and zipping her pants back up. _"That's a good girl,"_ she whispered creepily she was as she caressed Farrah's face.

She pulled away in disgust. _"I will not rest until I reclaim my honor by gutting you like the disgusting American pig you a-mmrhmf!"_ the terrorist mumbled as Bridges fit a strip of duct tape over her mouth.

It was around this time the shooting outside started dying down. The hatch swung up, spilling light into the basement. It was Vasquez with a smoking carbine at her side.

_"Any casualties?"_ Bridges looked up at the stairwell and asked.

_"Pelayo was KIA, God rest her soul, and Carver is in critical condition. West is rushing her to the nearest hospital in Fallujah. Did you get any information out of our friend here?"_

__

__

Farrah tried informing the squad leader of her corporal's abuse, but was gagged by the duct tape. _"There's another compound outside Samarra, ma'am,"_ the war criminal answered over her captive's muffled screams.

_"Great, I'll contact Overlord and plan another raid. How'd you get her to squeal?"_

__

__

_"You don't want to know."_

Vasquez chuckled. _"There's the Bridges we all know and love. I dunno how you do it, but you always get them to talk. Wanna dump her in the nearest POW camp?"_

_"No, not yet. I have a feeling she's still holding out."_ The Ranger turned to her prisoner, hunching down and looking her in the eye. _"**I wanna wring out every last little secret she has...**"_

The sergeant chuckled again as she stomped her way back up the staircase. _"Have fun, you two."_

She slammed the basement hatch shut, leaving Bridges and Farrah alone once more. 


	6. Peloponnesian War

August 30, 418 BC.

Arcadia, Greece.

The sky was crystal clear as Olympus looked down on rural Mantineia, its meadows as beautiful as the Elysian Fields themselves. That's why it was strange when, as a mighty legion of Spartans marched through the Arcadian countryside, a black shadow was cast over them like a cloud. They looked up and saw a horde of _hundreds_ of arrows soaring down from the heavens. 

_"**SPARTANS!**"_ bellowed the battalion's captain. _"**PHALANX FORMATION!**"_

With the unspoken efficiency of a hive mind, the Peloponnesian League fit their shields together, each emblazoned with a red Omega symbol, and positioned their bodies in such a way that formed an impenetrable, protective shell around them. A bronze carapace the length of a football field tightly surrounded the Spartans from every possible angle, so when the well-aimed arrows finally landed, there wasn't a single casualty to be had. It sounded and felt like it was raining scrap metal as the countless projectiles struck into their shields and snapped in half on impact. The powerful Spartans held fast, however, not flinching even as they were showered in arrows. When the torrent had finally stopped, the Peloponnesians cautiously lowered their shields and looked up at their distant attackers. 

Over on the grassy horizon was a brigade of the Athenian Empire, discarding their bows and drawing their swords. They were masked by golden Greek helmets, with mohawk-like plumes made from scarlet feathers that matched their skirts. Red too were their armguards, legguards, fingerless gloves, and sandals. All of the Athenians were short and lithe, but shapely and athletic. Their builds and bosom were shown off by their golden breastplates, which were skintight around their trunks. Meanwhile, the towering Spartans had Herculean builds and didn't hide it. They were completely topless, letting their chiseled six packs flex proudly and their plump breasts hang freely. Otherwise, their armor was much the same as the Athenians. 

Captain Andromeda of Sparta raised her spear. _"**CHAAARGE!**"_

Their sandals pounded the ground and shook the earth as they stampeded towards the Delian League with fire in their eyes. A mere Athenian hoplite gulped nervously as she watched the bronze wave crash down onto her, knowledgeable in the Spartans' unbeatable ferocity. She knew victory was impossible, but she knew surrender wasn't an option either. Genesis of Athens swallowed her fear and followed her fellow foot soldiers as they broke out into a charge of their own to rival the Spartans'. The two legions finally met and swords began clashing by the hundreds. The metal clanging and the women yelling could be heard from miles away. Genesis might've been timid, but she was still a fierce warrior. She was blessed by Athena herself, after all. Thinking smart, she stayed on the defensive, mainly blocking and deflecting attacks with her shield and sword, only striking back with well-timed killing blows. She managed to slay two Spartan warriors, but only with some help from her sisters-in-arms. Meanwhile, Captain Andromeda tore through the battlefield like a one-woman-army. She stood out from the rest of her Spartans thanks to the queenly cape that flowed behind her, as red as all the blood she was making others shed.

Andromeda sprinted off the edge of a mound and gave a running leap, landing on an Athenian and skewering her straight through her breastplate with her dory spear. Like every Spartan on the battleground, her topless breasts hypnotically flopped and jiggled with every last movement she made. To avenge her fallen comrade, an Athenian came up behind her and tried stabbing her in the back. But the Captain twisted around and blocked the blow with her shield. With her other hand, she stamped the Athenian's temple with her dory, before ripping the spearhead back out her skull and throwing it with pin-point precision at a distant one. Disarmed, Andromeda swept up a hoplite sword from a fallen soldier and used it to hack the head off the shoulders of another Delian that dared challenge her. At this point, the captain was spattered from head-to-toe in fresh Athenian blood, and it was glorious. Out of the corner of her eye, she noticed a quaking enemy. She turned her head and saw Genesis, smaller than her in every way. Belonging to a weaker army, of a much lower rank, much less battle experience and an entire foot shorter in height. Through the T-shaped slit in her helmet, Andromeda grinned almost maniacally at this fresh meat. 

Worst of all, the studious Athenian recognized her. Andromeda was a feared veteran of the Peloponnesian Wars, responsible for multiple crushing victories. Just Genesis's luck she'd catch the full attention of the fiercest Spartan on the battlefield... Without breaking eye-contact, the Spartan seized the base of her spear as it still stuck out the corpse of an Athenian. She tore it out, re-arming herself and huffing like a bull ready to charge. And charge she did, her cape elegantly raging from behind her akin to a red river. Genesis's heart throbbed with every footstep her enemy took forward, bracing for an earth-shattering attack. And sure enough, Andromeda lunged, her strike tipped by a razor-sharp spearhead. Genesis yelped and shielded herself. The spear went over her shield and landed right on her face, splitting her helmet in half. Chunks of bronze and a red plume toppled to the ground, leaving Genesis's head completely naked. The spear had grazed her cheek and left a small gash across her face, but it was nothing but a slight blemish on her stunning beauty. Her face was perfectly symmetrical, her short hair was a dirty blonde, and her eyes were baby blue. Her olive skin sparkled with sweat, and had a rosy tint from the strain. 

Andromeda was taken aback by the woman's beauty, but quickly shook herself out of the love-stricken trance. She was an enemy and she needed to be slain. The shock finally wore off of Genesis and she realized that Andromeda was even stronger than she looked, as she cracked a Corinthian helmet in two with little effort. The Athenian whimpered meekly upon realizing she'd soon be overpowered, but she held her ground nonetheless. Her helmet torn to pieces, Genesis's only means of defense were her shield and her measly little hoplite sword. A pitiful toothpick compared to the six foot-long spear Andromeda wielded. Genesis took a deep breath and faced death like a warrior. She proudly gripped her sword, staring the Amazon in the eye before swinging. The Athenian's blade clashed with Andromeda's spearhead over and over again. The Spartan was impressed by her enemy's swordplay and bravery, but was simply only humoring her, relishing in the strength behind her attacks as she effortlessly deflected them. The Captain swung her spear once with monstrous brawn. 

It instantly knocked Genesis's sword straight out her hands and sent it flying across the battlefield, leaving her completely defenseless. Andromeda swung once more, which the Delian instinctively ducked under. She felt wind tearing over her as she narrowly dodged the swing. Genesis now had an opening, but no weapon. Thinking fast, she clenched her fist and punched Andromeda across the jaw with her shield, bashing her over the head. The Spartan stumbled back in shock, surprised as her brain rattled around in her helmet. It bewildered Genesis herself too, and she trembled at the sight of Andromeda frozen in anger. The Spartan reached up and shed her helmet. Cropped brown hair spilled out the helm, and with it a supernaturally gorgeous face that took Genesis off guard, unable to strike her. She looked like a Goddess herself! The only thing that took away from her beauty was her nose, busted from the Athenian's strike. Andromeda dabbed her upper lip and looked at the blood on her fingers. She clenched her fist as a boiling, no-nonsense rage swept over her from her stained pride and she lashed out at her enemy like the rabid animal she was.


	7. 300 Spartans

Genesis's life flashed before her eyes as the Captain furiously kicked her in the center of her shield. Genesis flew back from the sheer impact, landing in the grass with a cracked sternum. Andromeda's burly shadow engulfed the downed Athenian as she approached in a couple of tromps forward. Before Genesis could even think to recover, the wind was knocked out of her as Andromeda's sandal'd foot stomped down on her chest, pinning her to the ground under her own _"**Ω**"_-adorned shield. 

_"Stay down, Athenian!"_ Andromeda ordered in a low, sultry voice. _"You are no used to me a corpse. Hades may want you a slave, but I want you a slave more,"_ she boasted blasphemously.

_"A-A slave?! N-No, Captain Andromeda; I am supposed to die in the glory of combat!"_ Genesis insisted with tears of strain in her cornea. 

Smirking, Andromeda kicked the shield aside. Genesis blinked and the mighty Spartan was already straddling her. She had grabbed her wrists and pinned them to the grass so they were face-to-face. Andromeda's hair was gorgeously backlit by Helios's divine Sun as her head hung over Genesis's like an eclipse. 

_"My reputation precedes me...Your face is too precious to slay, dear. No, I think you would make much better a handmaiden in my chamber, than a lost soul in the Underworld."_

_"I am a warrior! Not a handmaiden!"_ Genesis begged as she squirmed underneath the victor. 

The Spartan giggled menacingly, an eerie gesture from such a strong and stern woman. _"You will be once I am done with you, little Athenian."_

Andromeda reached down and her lips met with Genesis's. The Athenian's eyes went wide, not expecting a kiss, let alone such a deep and impassioned one. She let out a muffled _"mnf~!"_, and was frozen with shock and pleasure. The Peloponnesian's tongue spoke a distinct physical language. In the same way Andromeda had wrestled Genesis to the ground, their tongues zealously grappled as well. But Andromeda's tongue was bigger, stronger, wiser. The Delian was no match, forced to submit to the woman as she dominantly frenched her. Genesis's heart pounded against the inside of her tight breastplate. 

Andromeda was as fierce a lover as she was a fighter. She was clearly blessed by not only Ares, but Aphrodite. The battle continued to rage around the couple, for the Spartans and Athenians were so lost in their bloodlust that they didn't even notice. However, all the swords clashing and limbs getting hacked off were drowned out by the sheer passion shared between the two Greeks. For a moment, the war stopped. The Spartans disappeared, the Athenians disappeared, it was just the two of them in the fields of Arcadia. It was as if the Gods and Goddesses above were all looking down at them both, ordaining their full attention. 

_"Captain Andromeda~..."_ Genesis whispered tenderly, unsure of what to say. 

Letting go of Genesis's wrists, Andromeda reached down, got two handfuls of the Athenian's skirt, and tore it to red ribbons in one mighty gesture, baring her thick thighs. Genesis yelped as a breeze swept between her legs, as she had no underpants and was stripped naked from the waist down. She locked her knees and tried hiding her exposed pussy from the Captain, but her thighs were forcibly pried open, revealing a vulva wet from the excitement of make-out. The Delian looked down and whimpered as her untouched womanhood was put at the mercy of this sex maniac. Andromeda bobbed down and got a close look at Genesis's beautiful pink pussy. She could tell, within a second, that she was a virgin, which made her wicked smile widen even further. She let her tongue hang out and sensually raked it from the bottom of the Athenian's labia all the way up to her swollen clitoris. The second the warm, wet muscle touched Genesis's vaginal lips, she gasped, having never felt such a sensation before. 

She wanted to resist, but she simply melted into the woman's touch. It disabled her warrior's instinct and reduced her to a mere pillow princess. After Andromeda's tongue finished wrestling with Genesis's clit, it reached into her pussy and began exploring its moist, fleshy walls. It was obvious Andromeda had already fucked every Spartan in her army, as her knowledge of the female anatomy was nigh-encyclopedic. She knew Genesis's body better than Genesis knew herself. Even though they had just met, Andromeda knew every erogenous zone to tongue, every bundle of nerves to lick. She ate her out like she had already been eating her out for a lifetime. Genesis's eyes went bloodshot with pleasure as the ecstasy consumed her body from the waist up. She squirmed and shuddered and squealed and moaned, overwhelmed with the sensation of Captain Andromeda eating her pussy to the point of dryness. She laced her fingers through the Spartan's chocolatey locks, clenching her head for mercy. She wrapped her legs around the woman to further the embrace, writhing in a puddle of sweat. 

_"C-C...CAPTAIN ANDROMEDA!"_ she repeated, this time pleading breathlessly.

Genesis's eyes rolled into the back of her head as the bliss stewing in her belly exploded like a lightning bolt thrown by Zeus. Every muscle in her body tensed up and she squealed at the top of her lungs upon finishing spectacularly. Andromeda could feel the vaginal muscles contracting around her tongue. Genesis's pussy seized painfully, but it was a beautiful kind of pain. A boiling sensation so powerful that knocked the poor virgin clean out. Her heart had throbbed so hard that her blood pressure nose-dived and she fainted right then and there, with Andromeda's lips on her pussy. After wiping her chin clean, the Captain climbed to a stand and looked around. The battlefield was littered with hundreds of fallen soldiers. For every one Spartan slain, there were three dead Athenians. Sparta had won in a crushing victory, but at least Athens went down fighting. 

The surviving Peloponnesians all raised their swords and shields are roared collectively in triumph. The only Delian still breathing in Arcadia was Genesis, unconscious on the ground and having dreams about her new master. Andromeda couldn't help but smile at the peacefully slumbering Athenian, proud of having deflowered such a precious girl. With a single effortless motion, Andromeda had swept Genesis up over her shoulder in a fireman's carry. The Battle of Mantinea won, Captain Andromeda marched out of Arcadia the same way she marched in. She had the victorious remnants of her Spartan battalion loyally following behind her, and the unconscious body of her beautiful new slave girl thrown over her shoulder. Andromeda couldn't wait to get Genesis out of her stuffy armor and into a graceful nightgown.


	8. Hello, Vietnam

September 28, 1972.

Saigon, South Vietnam.

The jungles of South Asia were hot and humid. They formed an inescapable prison of overgrown greenery and palm trees. Cicadas and birds chirped incessantly throughout the rainforest, their cries echoing for miles. The swollen sun in the sky cast an orange light upon everything it touched. The silhouettes of Hueys soared across it, their blades beating like the wings of wasps as they laid waste to the Vietnamese villages below and blared _"Fortunate Son"_ by CCR through their loudspeakers. Twenty miles outside the capital, a squad of Green Berets marched through the ankle-high vegetation that lined the Vam Co Dong River.

They were tasked with scouting ahead the rice paddies for the 2nd Marine Division in search of any Viet Cong outposts. The Easter Offensive was at its height while the Cambodian Civil War raged just across the pond. Corporal Miller preferred an olive bandana, done up like a headband, over the eponymous green beret. Like the rest of her fellow commandos, she had the sleeves of her drab military jacket rolled up, revealing her tanned forearms as they shone with sweat. This also revealed the tribal tattoo snaking up her arm; a nostalgic reminder of her time in a youth gang. Wanting to lighten the lost and dismal mood, Private Hartman stirred up some banter.

_"Hey, Kurtz! What are you gonna do when you get back to the States?"_

_"Try not to get spit on."_

The squad laughed. _"Oh, that's just a myth!"_ Hartman replied through her chuckles. _"What about you, Miller? What're your plans after your tour is over?"_

_"Fuck my husband 'till he passes out. Then keep fucking him."_

The band of sisters laughed even harder, but Barnes quieted down when she got a serious idea. _"Hey, squad. We've been patrolling for hours now. I think we've earned some rest, right?"_

_"Good thinking, Barnes,"_ Kurtz agreed. _"Let's set up camp for a couple hours, just as a quick pit-stop."_

_"I don't like putting our guards down in the middle of this place,"_ Miller worried. _"What if Charlie slits our throats in our sleep?"_

_"We'll keep watchout. C'mon, Miller, it'll be fine!"_ reassured Barnes.

After finding a good spot in the shade of a tree, Kurtz and Hartman slung the equipment packs off their shoulders and began unloading. They set out a towel, some blankets, a bucket, some rods, and a bar of soap. While they erected a tent with the sheets and poles, Miller followed the sounds of the nearest babbling brook, bucket in hand. Barnes made a quick campfire with a lighter, a half-empty can of kerosene, and some dry leaves, which Kurtz used to brew some coffee with the beans and water packet in her ration. After finishing the cup of Joe, Kurtz tipped her helmet over her head as a makeshift sleep mask and took a nap in the tent. Hartman joined her while Miller re-emerged from the shrubbery with a bucket of freshwater.

_"I'm gonna go take a piss,"_ Barnes crassly excused before exiling herself to the woods.

_"Hey, if your zipper gets stuck, just call, okay?"_ Miller teased.

_"Fuck off."_

With Kurtz gone and Barnes and Hartman asleep, Miller had some time to herself. She used it to undress, piece-by-piece. First she untied the sweat-soaked bandana wrapped around her forehead, then she unbuttoned her jacket and let both the forest-colored articles of clothing crumble to the ground. She unzipped her army jeans and kicked off her black combat boots so she could wiggle out of her pants. She was going commando, so she didn't have any underwear to worry about. It was a refreshing and liberating feeling, to have the temperate breeze of an open, endless jungle wrapping around her stark naked body. She soaked the bar of soap in the bucket until the water was frothing. Then she picked up the bucket and splashed the whole gallon down onto herself. From head to toe, her naked body was drenched in glistening, soapy water. Her skin looked oily and was caked in suds. She scratched her scalp, ran her fingers through her hair, and wrung it dry. Brianna rubbed the bodywash into her creases, bathing herself thoroughly to wash away all the patches of dirt she had accumulated over the hike. She played with her jiggly breasts, squeezing them together and smiling at the bubbles as they danced down her cleavage.

Through the lens of a scope and from the perch of a treetop, an enemy sniper watched this bathing unfold. The telescopic sight's zoom let them see every detail of Miller, and the Peeping Tom was simply entranced by her body as she carelessly flaunted it to the jungle. She looked like Eve herself enjoying her stay in the Garden of Eden. The patient sniper held off on attacking the camp just yet, keeping their finger off the trigger for now, opting to stalk the squad further. After thoroughly drying off with a towel, Miller dug a military makeup kit out of her satchel. She dabbed her fingers in camouflage paint and began smearing fat streaks of green and black across her forehead, cheeks, nose, and jaw, coloring her face to that of the jungle's. She also fingerpainted some other parts of her body for fun. By the time the newly camouflaged Miller had re-dressed, Barnes returned and the camp continued as normal. A couple hours passed, the sun had moved a couple inches in the sky, and once the Berets were fully rested, they snuffed the fire and packed up most of their gear. Leaving the tent behind, they moved out once more.

_"Hey, Barnes,"_ Miller piped up to break the silence. _"Remember Drill Sergeant Kilgore, from boot camp?"_

_"You know, I was in a Charlie POW camp for a couple of weeks, and I can say with damn well certainty that those gooks treated me with better manners than that bitch ever did."_

The squad once again erupted into laughter. Mid-chuckle, Miller felt something seize her boots. The tree that stalked her from above snatched her up by the ankles like a bird stealing a worm. Before the word 'what' could even spark through her synapses, she was hanging upside down from a branch, having been caught in a Vietnamese snare trap.

_"**WHOAAA, SHIT!**"_ Miller screamed and thrashed and wailed like a little girl, dropping her M16 to the forest floor.

Gunfire started spitting from the tree-tops.

_"**AMBUUUSH!**"_

The Berets scattered like rats as they were showered with bullets. Birds fled from the trees in flocks as the jungle erupted into a wild and crazed firefight. Dozens of bronze bullets clattered to the ground and piled up in the foliage below as the Americans blindly unloaded their M16s into the surrounding greenery. Tears of terror, strain, and frustration streamed down Miller's forehead as she dangled helplessly in the center of all this chaos. A stray bullet could've hit her at any moment. It was a complete fever dream, watching her comrades get dropped like flies by the disembodied gunfire coming from the invisible-seeming Viet Cong. Just a few moments ago, they were marching through the beautiful jungles of 'Nam without a care in the world. Now they were being picked off one-by-one by the hostile natives.

_"**THEY'RE IN THE TREES!**"_


	9. Paint It Black

A dead silence swept over the jungle once the final Beret was dropped. Kurtz, Hartman, Barnes...The entire squad bled into the grass profusely, filling the air with the stench of iron. Every Beret except for one, left alone and helpless in this maze-like rainforest. A small, lithe figure crept out of the bushes and began slowly approaching Miller, who continued to hang in the air like dried laundry. They were dressed in black pajamas, had their head entirely obscured by a rice farmer hat, and were armed by a smoking, scope-mounted AK-47. Their flared pants were so long they completely hid their bare feet. Wait...No...This whole time, there was only one?! An entire Green Beret squad was slaughtered by a single person? That's not possible! It was only when she could finally see her enemy that Miller stopped panicking and gained the sense to try and escape. She plunged her hand into the sheathe on her utility belt to pull out her combat knife and cut herself out of the snare, however she fumbled and it clattered to the tall grass, out of reach.

_"Shit!"_ Miller swore, hopelessly trying to reclaim her lost knife.

The Viet Cong noticed the silver dog-tags jangling from Miller's throat as she struggled. They grabbed the militaristic necklace by its chain so they could read its inscription.

_"MILLER_  
_BRIANNA_  
_BLOOD-TYPE O_  
_ROMAN-CATHOLIC"_

_"Get your hands off me, you filthy gook!"_ Miller spat with racist disgust as she tried wrestling the Vietnamese away.

Suddenly, the haunting echoes of _"Paint It Black"_ by The Rolling Stones crept into both the soldiers' earshots, making their hearts sink. It was coming from a couple of approaching attack choppers as they swept over the jungle at speeds of over a hundred miles per hour. Their bomb bays fell open and unleashed a few fuel canisters that tumbled through the air as they plummeted towards the ground. Upon landing, they exploded into gigantic fireballs that consumed every tree in sight. Napalm. Knowing firsthand the horrors of this incendiary monster, the merciful Viet Cong quickly sliced their ensnared victim down with a shot from their Kalashnikov. Brianna hit the forest floor with a thud, but was back on her feet before she knew it thanks to the VC helping her up.

The two soldiers ran for their lives through the foliage as a napalm-laced firestorm chased them, scorching everything in its wake. They ran so far that they had arrived back at Brianna's abandoned campground from earlier. Thinking fast, the Beret tackled her "enemy" into the tent just as the napalm bombing nipped at their heels. The shelter was consumed by darkened smoke gusting around it, and its beige flysheets wisped in the strong shockwave. It was nonetheless unscathed by the airstrike, just barely grazed. The glorious stench of gasoline hung in the air, radiating from the several acres of empty blackened husks left behind by the napalm bombings. Miller and the guerilla were safe in the dark confines of the tent. The resounding 60s rock music faded out just as quickly as it faded in. The two warriors' lungs heaved while their hearts throbbed, having very narrowly escaped an excruciating death by working together.

_"Why did you save me?"_ asked Brianna through her panting.

_"Tại sao bạn cứu tôi?"_ the VC asked in a soft and feminine voice, just as breathless.

The two noticed the language barrier. Brianna only spoke English while Charlie only spoke Vietnamese. Their words didn't matter though. Their actions spoke loud enough to each other. The VC could've left Brianna to dangle helplessly and get a taste of her own medicine. But she didn't. Brianna could've outraced the VC to the tent and let her succumb to the fireball. But she didn't. They both knew of the horrors of napalm, and wouldn't wish it upon their worst enemy. This freedom fighter had singlehandedly slaughtered Miller's squad. A part of her wanted to wring her neck and avenge her fallen Berets. But the Viet Cong was only doing her duty. She defied her duty by saving her. That was a gesture of sisterhood Brianna only felt between her comrades. But she was feeling that spark with an enemy. It was a weird, conflicting sensation. The Vietnamese wasn't any less confused. To further humanize herself, she swept the conical hat off her scalp so it hung down her shoulders by its chin strap. A head of shoulder-length hair spilled out. It matched her eyes. Dark, rich, and sultry. Her cheekbones were as thin as her eyebrows, her skin was yellow like the propaganda promised, and she wore a stoic expression.

Brianna stared starstruck at the beautiful young Asian woman. She couldn't believe her government wanted her to kill these people. The Beret could look into her eyes and see a life of suffering. At some point, she was an innocent little rice farmer named Mai who wouldn't hurt a fly. But this horrible, meaningless war turned her into a child soldier, and she grew into a broken woman. An uproar of remorse and sympathy swirled in Brianna's mind. The inside of the tent was hot and sweaty and the two women inside it were confused and conflicted. In an impulsive and hormone-driven gesture, as her idea of a "sorry", Brianna leaned in. Their lips married in an ignition of sudden romance, followed by their tongues. Without a single word needing to be exchanged, the two pink appendages played and danced with one another from the inside of their mouths. Miller wrapped her arms around Mai's body, pulling her in for further embrace. Her big, strong hands slid down her back and reached into the waistband of her black pajama pants. She squeezed her squishy buttcheeks greedily, addicted to feeling of them kneading through her fingers.

Mai was a small girl, but she had a lot of fatty tissue on her glutes to grope. She could feel a wedding ring digging into one of her cheeks as Brianna's fingers buried into it. The Asian disconnected from the kiss, which revealed her lips to be stained green by Brianna's warpaint. The two shared a laugh over the silly, adorable sight. Coming in even closer, Mai's meticulous fingers began undoing the Beret's jacket, button-by-button, from bottom to top. Her chest had strips of green and black camo paint smeared across it too. The final button was loosened, which made Brianna's plump, mature breasts flop out. She wasn't wearing an undershirt, so her naked bosom protruded far past the lapels of her jacket. They must've been G cups, they were so large. They filled up Mai's hands as she squeezed them. Just as beautiful were the chiseled washboard abs the breasts cast a shadow down on. Mai toothlessly bit down on Miller's left nipple, sucking on it to taste her pink areola. However, much to her surprise, Mai tasted an influx of sweet milk instead. Since she had a baby waiting for her at home, Brianna's breasts were bursting with cream. Certainly not complaining, Mai continued nursing from the Beret's lactating nipples.

She suckled so hard her lips pinched the milf's areola and made her gasp sharply, followed by a sensual moan and a slight giggle. Breast milk poured down Mai's throat copiously, and it only got more torrential the harder she groped. The VC 5th Infantry Division's supply lines were measly, so Mai was used to eating nothing beyond scraps. But now, since she could afford it, the starved woman ate and drank from Brianna's bust as gluttonously as she could could. The Viet Cong didn't stop breastfeeding until her stomach was filled with three whole cups of milk. Brianna's mammary glands were left emptied and dry, but she didn't mind that one bit. Mai detached from her lover's chest with a wet _"pop!"_, wiping off the milk running down her chin with her sleeve. Brianna unbuttoned her cargos and let them slink to her knees, boasting a vulva, some thighs, and some asscheeks slathered in warpaint just as her face. Mai dug in immediately, riddling and worshiping her extremities with smooches. It felt so long ago when Mai was ogling Brianna's chiseled temple of a body from 20 yards away through a sniper scope. Now here she was, exploring every inch of that body with her tongue, as close and intimate as physically possible. It was surreal.

_"Hartman?!"_ suddenly shouted a voice in the distance. _"Kurtz?! Miller?!"_

A rescue party had ventured into the jungle after the fallen Beret squad.

Brianna gasped. _"I have to go!"_ she whispered to Mai.

She obviously couldn't understand her phonetically, but got the message through the American's frantic tone of voice and body language. Brianna hurriedly squirmed back into her pants and stuffed her tits into her jacket while scrambling to her boots.

_"You have to get out of here!"_ she quietly but feverishly explained to Mai as she clutched her shoulders. _"If they find you, they'll kill you!... Goodbye,"_ she said solemnly with a quick but sincere kiss on the lips.

Mai nodded, her eyes full of somberness. _"Tạm biệt..."_

They went their separate ways by sneaking out opposite sides of the tent. Mai crept back into the vegetation and became one with the jungle once more, while Brianna met up with the other half of her squad. The two looked back one last time before returning to their respective worlds.


	10. The Great War

_"October 2, 1918._

_Ypres, Belgium._

_I've been rotated to a trench in the outskirts of Flanders. It's day fifty-five of the Hundred Days Offensive. The German Empire is almost beaten. We should have them surrendered by the end of November. But I feel no relief nor pride for our inevitable victory. Everything is cold and miserable. Everywhere I look, it's a muddy grey. Colour is nonexistent in this hellhole. The No Man's Land is a muggy, soul-rending eye-sore. I'm sure a beautiful, lush Belgian forest used to thrive here. But after four years of merciless artillery weathering, it's just an ugly, scorched wasteland traced with miles of trenches paved by wooden planks. And here I am, cowering in one of them. I just want to go home. I miss my dad, and my mum, and my sisters."_

After scribbling down her daily diary entry, Elizabeth snapped her leather-bound journal shut and tucked it into the lapels of her drab army fatigues. She sat on the floor of an Allied trench, the back of her Brodie helmet dug into the wall. She cradled the polished wood and hard iron of her bayonet-tipped Lee-Enfield rifle, as it was the only thing that gave her comfort in this nightmarish hellscape of the Great War. Tanks, planes, poison gas...The 20th century had truly started off with a bang. Zeppelins and fighters flew overhead, gunfire crackled and explosions stormed in the background as Elizabeth and her rifle platoon trembled in the middle of it all. Without a semblance of warning or fanfare, an unpinned grenade landed in the trench. 

_"**GRENADE!**"_

All surrounding British soldiers instinctively hit the deck, protectively cradling their helmeted heads as they braced for their hideout to be rocked by an explosion. However, no explosion came. Instead, the grenade hissed out a sickly green smoke. 

_"**MASKS ON!**"_

Elizabeth turned over and watched in horror as the sickly green mist slowly closed in like an encroaching fog. It swirled around her boots then up her brown legwraps and she almost felt like it was going to drag her into the mustard-colored abyss. Her hands scrambled around the belt of her utility harness so she could equip a black gas-mask hung by her holster. She plugged the respirator onto her face and, right as she fastened the straps around her head, the poison gas engulfed her. She breathed an easy sigh, having narrowly escaped an agonizing death. She rose to her feet and felt a strange sense of comfort. As the mask tightly straddled her head, it made the battlefield seem...distant. The ugly visuals were filtered through her goggles, and the horrid ambience was muffled by her breaths. The war was actually stomachable like this. It was a slow and surreal walk through the murky virescent corridor of the trench. 

Elizabeth's heart painfully skipped a beat in her chest when someone dropped down into the dugout next to her. It was a shadowy figure with hostile body language. The British Expeditionary Force member instinctively rose her weapon and fired, but missed due to being disoriented by the gas. Her jaw torqued when she was whipped by the butt of a rifle and sent right back to the ditch's wooden floor. Her life flashed before her eyes as a blade struck down onto her like a lightning bolt, almost skewering her heart. However, she caught it with her bare hands and tried wrestling her attempted killer off of her. The enemy soldier had tried sticking her with the bayonet of her rifle, and was mere centimeters from being successful. By this point, the gas finally cleared so Elizabeth could see the woman seconds away from stabbing her heart. 

A soldier of the German Empire, cloaked in a grey trenchcoat with a Stahlhelm and gas-mask, both a dreary black. Her leather gloved-hands clutched an emptied Gewehr 98 like the handle of a sword as she tried driving its blade down into Elizabeth's chest. Through the goggles of her gas-mask, Elizabeth looked down and saw the glint of her Enfield revolver sitting enticingly in her holster. She was so tempted to reach down and pump this Jerry full of lead, however she could just barely keep her enemy at bay with both of her hands, let alone just one. With no strength to spare, Elizabeth's arms ached painfully, muscles about to give out. Tears boiled behind her respirator as she slowly succumbed to life-threatening fatigue. Just then, the skies shrieked with a whistle that got louder and closer with every heartbeat. 

_"**HERUNTERSTEIGEN!**"_

The last thing Elizabeth saw was the German looking up in fear before an artillery shell struck the nearby earth like a comet, blowing up the trench to high heaven and sending all its inhabitants flying, British and German alike. Dirt and debris washed across the air like sideways rain and a ringing gnawed at Elizabeth's eardrums as she was nearly knocked out by the tumble. She landed in a pillbox and writhed around on the concrete floor in a daze before finally pulling herself to her feet. Laying in the small bunker's doorway was the German soldier that nearly killed her, unmoving but in one piece. Elizabeth drew her revolver. She had no intention of killing an unconscious woman, but kept it at the ready just in case she was playing dead. She cautiously approached the motionless Jerry, before crouching down and rolling her onto her back. The midriff of her trenchcoat was stained in blood, like she was shot in the gut. 

Elizabeth unbuttoned the woman's coat and revealed nothing but a white tanktop underneath. She pulled it up to see a set of pale chiseled abs, with a piece of shrapnel wedged between two of her ribs. She was bleeding rather profusely, the debris having likely punctured an artery. If Elizabeth didn't act fast, this woman would die. She might've been an enemy, but she was still human. Elizabeth was no field medic, but she had patched up flesh wounds before. Far too many, in fact... She looked around the cramp pillbox and noticed a bench just the German's size. Elizabeth had just enough strength to carry the woman over to the counter and lay her out on it. Underneath it was a black chest, which Elizabeth fished around in. She found just what she needed - a medkit. A used one, but she worked with what she had. 

She gripped a pair of medical tweezers, and with surgical precision, used it to carefully pluck out the shrapnel. There was no disinfectant, but there was a flask of liquor, so it was going to have to do. She soaked a cottonball with whiskey and cleaned the German's gaping wound with it, cringing as the blood fizzed from the antiseptic. It was a good thing the German was knocked out, otherwise that would've stung like Hell. She kneaded a fine needle through the bloodied skin and started sewing her shut. Thankfully, it was a small hole so it didn't take long. All that was left was to bandage her up, so she grabbed a roll of gauze from the medkit and wrapped a thin but firm swathe around her abdomen. It was at this point where the Jerry began to stir. She awoke to the triggering sight of a Union Jack shoulder insignia hanging over her, so she shot up immediately in a panicked state.

_"Was zur Hölle?!"_ she shouted in German, clutching her injury as it stung with pain. _"Wer bist du?! Weg von mir!"_

The German tore a Mauser C96 from her holster and aimed it at Elizabeth, finger on the trigger.


	11. No Man's Land

Having no weapon, the Englishwoman backed up and surrendered immediately. _"Wait! Wait, I mean no harm!"_ the posh lady begged, her voice muffled by her mask just as the German's.

_"A Tommy that means no harm?"_ the soldier scoffed dismissively in English, though her German accent was still thick. _"Likely story."_

_"I was patching you up! Some shrapnel from that shell nipped you in an artery! If it weren't for me, you'd be dead!"_

The German's memory started trickling back into her concussed skull, remembering the struggle and the artillery strike. _"You...You're that Brit I almost killed with my bayonet...Why would you save me?"_ she asked in disbelief, slowly lowering her weapon.

_"I couldn't just stand and watch another woman die. I'm not callous!"_

The German looked down at her bandages and chuckled in bewilderment. _"I can't believe it..."_

_"There's some liquor and fags in the medkit, if you'd like to share...You could use it, I'm sure you're in some dreadful pain."_

Scattered across the bench among the medical supplies was the flask, a lighter, and a pack of cigarettes. The German finally holstered her pistol, took the cigarettes, and tossed her British counterpart the lighter. Elizabeth caught it and shed herself of her gas-mask, taking in a nice breath of fresh air. The German was startled by her beauty, stumbling a bit as she approached her. Blushing underneath her mask, she took a cigarette out the package and placed it in between the Tommy's soft, luscious lips. Then she got close so she could light it up, and the cigarette's butt glowed orange between the two. Elizabeth took a long, satisfying draw. The German unmasked as well and revealed a face so gorgeous it almost took the Brit off her feet. Both women's hair were shaved down to buzz-cuts. Unable to quite look her in the eye out of bashfulness, Elizabeth passed the fag. As the German smoked it, Elizabeth's eyes fell near her breasts, where her nametag sat near the lapels of her open trenchcoat.

_"Müller, huh? I'm Morgan."_

The German temporarily plucked the cigarette from her mouth so she could add, _"My friends call me Hilda."_

_"Well, my friends call me Elizabeth."_

Müller smiled cheekily. _"So, Royal Army, hm, Elizabeth?"_

The Englishwoman's blush deepened to a rosy red extent as the German indirectly implied she regarded her as a friend. She chuckled nervously as she answered. _"Yep! 36th Division..."_

Hilda's eyes glowed with a pleasant surprise, and her smile strengthened. _"Me too!"_

_"What? Seriously?! What are the odds...36th British Army and 36th German Army."_

_"Prussian, actually."_

The two shared a laugh and a smoke over the incredible coincidence. But Hilda's chuckle was interrupted by a sharp gasp of pain as a sudden stabbing twinge surged in her back.

_"Scheisse!"_ she hissed in German while clutching her aching back. _"That artillery strike really sprained some tendons..."_

_"...Well, you know,"_ Elizabeth began curiously. _"Whenever my mates are sore and shellshocked, I always give them a good medical massage. Never fails at getting them back on their feet!"_

Hilda chuckled. _"In this hellhole, I'd be a fool to pass up a backrub. Do your worst!"_

Hilda turned around so Elizabeth could grab her collar and neatly remove her unbuttoned trenchcoat, peeling it off her athletically-built body so she could hang it on a nearby hook. This rendered her completely topless and stripped her down to only her gloves, pants, and boots. Elizabeth blushed when she saw a brief glimpse of the Prussian's naked chest before she climbed up onto the bench and laid out on her sore, patched-up belly. Hilda crossed her arms and rested her head atop them, twisting her hips until she was nice and comfortable across the tabletop. Hanging over her, Elizabeth grabbed the snug Jerry by her shoulders and began the massage. Her thumbs pressed into Hilda's upper back and rubbed them in a circular motion. She elegantly molded her muscles, loosening the knots out of existence while easing the tears. Once the top half was thoroughly tenderized, Elizabeth moved down to the German's lower back. Working around the strip of gauze, her fingertips stroked and kneaded her skin with expert technique. The Englishwoman's hands worked miracles upon Hilda's back, sensually tuning every sinew, every tendon, every sore spot.

_"Oh~..."_ Hilda moaned in a deep, sultry whisper, feeling a burst of relief and a twinge of arousal. 

Encouraged by Hilda's enjoyment, Elizabeth's smooth hands began slowly drifting even further downwards, even away from her back...It was a bold and unannounced action, but it somehow felt gradual and natural. The BEF soldier gently tugged Hilda's grey trousers down to her thighs, exposing a shapely pale bubble butt that protruded from the back of her waist. Gefreiter Müller gasped as a slight breeze washed over her bare buttocks. Elizabeth then began massaging Hilda's glutes. 

_"Mm~!"_ she squeaked, biting her lip as the massage grew past her comfort zone. And she loved every second of it.

The Tommy's fingertips and palms buried into the jiggly buttcheeks. While Hilda's back was a flat canvas of tight, rock-hard muscles, her buttocks were two malleable orbs of sheer fat that were almost addictive to play with. Elizabeth's fingers fluidly twisted, rolled, and lifted the twenty pounds of blubber with just the right amount of pressure applied. She couldn't help but catch a glimpse at the two holes that lied between Hilda's cheeks. She was hypnotized by the German's dry, shriveled pussy as it began stretching and swelling and glistening with arousal. It was like watching a withered flower miraculously return to a beautiful rose bustling with life. Just as enticing was her anus as it surged and winked with her breaths. Elizabeth felt irresistibly allured to lean in and...Give it a lick. Just a quick, playful little flick of the tongue across Hilda's crevice. 

_"Oh!~ Elizabeth!~"_ Hilda pleaded girlishly.

Instantly addicted and wanting more, Elizabeth wedged her tongue into Hilda's buttcrack, wriggling it into her pussy lips. It scraped her vaginal walls, relishing her tropical taste. Her tongue soaked in the juices like a sponge and bit her tastebuds with an tantalizing flavor. It slithered out and into Hilda's other hole. It was tighter and quivered meekly across Elizabeth's mouth as she slurped up the many drops of anal lubricant she seeped. Elizabeth smushed the Prussian's squishy cheeks together as she rimmed them vehemently. Hilda buried her face into her arms to muffle her shrieking cries of ecstasy. Her asshole had a very distinct sweet tang to it. Coffee, sweet tea, lemonade, chocolate; regardless of whatever was in Hilda's ration that morning, Elizabeth could taste something unmistakably sugary, and she simply couldn't get enough of it. 

She was like a child gorging herself on candies. Hilda's booted ankles pivoted with a squirming bliss as she felt a warmth building in her bowels that overwhelmed her for a second. Warned by a howling squeak of ecstasy, it manifested as a short but juicy ejaculation that sputtered from out between Hilda's legs, directly into the Brit's mouth so she could delight in the saccharine discharge. After swallowing every drop, Elizabeth pulled out from between the Imperial German's cheeks, her chin pouring with pussy juice. Hilda turned over onto her back and sat up, clutching her lover's face so she could thank her with an amorous kiss. It was long and deep, the two of them subtly swaying as they became lightheaded with lust. Hilda gently withdrew, her lips climbing down off of Elizabeth's.

_"So that's what I taste like,"_ she muttered, tasting her own squirt in her ex-enemy's breath. 

Elizabeth giggled uncontrollably as she became infatuated with Hilda. She leaned in for another kiss and the Prussian lost her balance, so the two tumbled off the bench and onto the bunker floor. They were so lost in their spit-swapping that they didn't even notice. The War to End All Wars raged around the pillbox they embraced in, in a bustling typhoon of artillery strikes and tank battles between Mark IV Landships and A7Vs. Despite this, the two young women were deaf to it all.


	12. Civil War

May 7, 1864.

Spotsylvania County, Virginia. 

Bellowing throughout the Eastern Theater of the Civil War was a battle between the Union and the Confederacy. The thunder of gunfire, the explosions of cannonballs, the galloping of cavalry. But it was all mere faint echoes in the distance to Amanda, who camped in the Wilderness with her squad as reinforcements. Under the command of General Grant, they were pitched near the outskirts of Richmond, the Confederate capital. The African-descended woman had a light caramel skintone and was seated around a campfire with a couple of tents, greedily eating a dozen ounces of beef stew out of her ration. She savored every bite, knowing that it could be entire days before she ate again. The grass sprouted through her toes as she sat barefoot upon a stump, for the Union supply lines had grown so desperate that even boots were scarce. The pantlegs of her blue fatigues were rolled up to her knees, so the tall grass tickled her calves as well. Said grass looked almost flaxen, as the sunset made everything shine with gold. Amanda looked down at her gnawing stomach and sore feet in misery.

_"I bet General Lee and her women are eating like queens in their fancy forts right now,"_ she seethed jealously. 

_"Not for long!"_ confidently barked the squad's sergeant as they readied to move out. _"You ladies ready to serve Dixie's ass on a platter?!"_

_"Ma'am, yes, ma'am!"_ shouted the soldiers of the 19th Colored Troops Regiment, squeezing their Springfields anxiously.

Their rally was interrupted when they heard the faint beating of war drums, getting closer and closer with each breath. Over the horizon rose a twisted bastardization of the Stars and Stripes. The Confederate battle flag. A spitting image of Amanda's own unit marched over the hill, led by a drummer girl. The only difference was the color of their uniform, an ashy grey instead of a patriotic blue. They stopped in their tracks, rifles at the ready.

_"READY! AIM! FIRE!"_

Bullets rained down onto the Union camp from the Army of Northern Virginia, riddling the tents with holes and forcing the Northerners to scramble for cover. Heart pounding in her chest, Amanda dived behind a cheval de frise. After taking a deep breath and calming down to ward off a boiling panic attack, she hyped herself up for a firefight and slung her Springfield off her shoulder. She peeked out over the anti-cavalry obstacle, closed one of her eyes, and fired her musket at the grey, dropping one of them. Now it was time to reload. Amanda rolled her eyes and began the arduous process. She reached back into her satchel and fished out a cartridge, chomping down on its head to bite it open so she could pour its gunpowder down into the barrel of her rifle. She drew the ramrod out from the muzzle's notch and used it to stuff the bullet down into the musket's belly, before returning the rammer back to its slot. The gun was finally loaded. Amanda _readied_, mounting the Springfield butt on her shoulder. Amanda _aimed_, pulling the hammer back with a metal crunch. Amanda _fired_, mashing down on the trigger and making an explosion of black smoke erupt from its muzzle. The molten lead pierced the heart of a charging Confederate soldier, toppling her to the ground. 

Amanda ducked back down into cover, smoke infesting her surroundings. She reloaded her musket again. Draw the cartridge, bite it open, pour in the gunpowder, draw the rod, ram the bullet, return the rod, ready, aim, fire. Cartridge, bite, powder, rod, bullet, return, ready, aim, fire. There was so much smoke it was impossible to see if she hit anything. The battlefield had been completely fogged up with a hazy grey as gunfire and yelling resounded through Richmond's countryside. Out of the corner of her eye, the Union soldier noticed a silhouette creeping through the smoke. Her rifle unloaded, Amanda instead swiped her Colt revolver out of her holster and aimed it square between the eyes of the Confederate that threateningly loomed over her. The Southerner yelped, clenched her eyes, and raised her hands, which made a war drum clatter to the ground. Amanda took her eyes off the enemy's terrified face so she could look down at the discarded instrument as it slowly rolled through the grass. With her eyes aimed at the ground, she noticed that the Confederate was also lacking in any footwear, her exposed calves trembling in fear. It was just a barefoot drummer girl.

_"...They didn't give you any boots either?"_ asked Amanda, her finger leaving her Colt's trigger.

The Rebel opened one of her eyes, expecting a bullet, not a conversation. _"...N-No, ma'am,"_ she stuttered in a charming Southern accent, hands still raised. _"I've been marching barefoot up and down Virginia all month!"_

_"Huh...I guess you Confederates are worse off than I thought."_

_"Oh, y-yes, ma'am!"_ the country girl couldn't agree more. _"Our supply lines got wrecked last week in Hanover! I reckon I haven't eaten in two whole days..."_

Feeling sympathy, Amanda glanced at the half-eaten ration she left at the campfire. After holstering her sidearm, she grabbed it and offered it to her grey-clad adversary.

The Confederate's eyes went wide from an enticing hunger and a flattered surprise. _"Ma'am, I...W-We're enemies, ma'am, I can't-!"_

_"Call me Amanda."_

After a pause and a sigh, the Dixie soldier reluctantly took the can and began finishing Amanda's meal with dinner-table manners, scooping the soup into her mouth with a spoon. _"Private Mary Belle of the 21st Mississippi, reporting for duty,"_ she sarcastically saluted with an awkward smile.

The buffalo soldier giggled. _"Pretty name."_

_"Well, that's mighty kind of you, ma-...I mean, Amanda,"_ Mary stuttered with a blush.

The smoke of the firefight finally parted to reveal the campground littered with dead bodies, Union and Confederate alike. 

_"Huh, I was wondering why everything had gone quiet...Well, I 'spose we're the only ones left,"_ Mary sighed after swallowing her last bite, long jaded to seeing the corpses of her comrades.

_"War's an ugly business...You know, I'm surprised you're as comfortable as you are around me."_

_"Why, 'cause you're a Yankee and I'm from Dixie?"_

_"Because I'm black and you're white."_

Mary was taken aback by the blunt, almost confrontational statement. _"...I'm just a poor farmer girl, Amanda. Not in no million years could my family's ranch afford slaves anyhow."_

_"Hm. Wish the same could've been said for my master's family...He liked negro gals."_

_"I'm mighty sorry to hear that, Amanda...But at least it made you."_

The mulatto mentally chewed on those words for a moment. _"One way of looking at it, I suppose..."_

_" ...It probably don't mean much,"_ the Southerner continued. _"...But just so you know, the color of your skin don't matter to me."_

_"...Really? I've never heard that one before. Not even in the North. Why, thank you, Mary Belle. That means a lot..."_

_"As a matter of fact..."_ Mary furthered, cheekily pushing her luck. _"I never told anyone this - my folks would probably kill me I did - but I always thought colored gals were prettier than white gals..."_

_"...Is that so?"_


	13. A House Divided

The couple unconsciously leaned in so close that they could feel their own hot breaths. Their lips were mere centimeters from each other...All of a sudden, the creaking of wooden wheels and the clopping of horse hooves entered the two soldiers' hail. Their heads cocked in the according direction, and through the trees they could see a small wagon train snaking down a dirt road. The caravan was wound to a halt upon noticing the two enemies seated around a massacre. They belonged to the Union, especially alerted by Mary's grey uniform.

_"Oh no..."_ Amanda muttered grimly. _"They'll kill you! We have to get out of here!"_

She seized Mary's hand and bolted in the opposite direction. Their bare feet raced through the tall grass of Spotsylvania County.

_"A Rebel and a deserter!"_ alerted one of the Union officers. _"Don't let them get away!"_

One of the wagons was transporting a cannon. It was wheeled out the back by a crew of artillery operators. Working with scurrying efficiency, they had the cannon loaded in an instant. One soldier slotted a shell into the iron barrel, seating it firmly in its breech. Another aimed the ordnance by adjusting its trail. One of them yelled _"FIRE!"_, and a third Northerner yanked the lanyard. All three clenched their eyes and cupped their ears as an explosion rocked the Wilderness. Mary and Amanda were almost knocked off their feet as the earth shook when the artillery round landed only a couple meters behind them. Their ears rang and their sight was obscured as debris rained down and a cloud of smoke engulfed them, the leftovers of a fireball. Despite the stumble, they kept running like Hell. The Yankee squad scrambled to reload the cannon after cleaning its muzzle by worming out any debris with a sponge-tipped rammer. 

_"FIRE!"_

Another earth-shattering blast nearly grazed the two retreating soldiers. By the time all the smoke cleared, Mary and Amanda were nowhere to be seen. They ran through the briars and they ran through the brambles and they ran through the bushes in their escape of the artillery bombardment. It was a feverish and crazed escape, before crescendoing when they tripped and tumbled down a hill in a chaotic mess. Finally still, they laid dazed in the grass for a good while, waiting for their hearts to stop racing, for their lungs to stop seizing, for their headaches to stop twinging. It was quiet. They were so far away from the fight that all they could hear was the gentle breeze slightly rustling the grass. They sat up so they could bask in their new surroundings. It was an endless, yellow pasture, not yet devolved into a battlefield. No banners. No anti-cavalry obstacles. No artillery installments. Not even any traces of civilization; no fences or houses or roads. Just pure nature, untouched and untarnished by humanity. With the sun shedding everything in golden hour, the meadow looked like a glimpse of Heaven itself. It was an impossibly beautiful sight that brought tears to both Mary and Amanda's eyes, especially given how they just escaped an ugly combat zone. Nothing needed to be said. The atmosphere was perfect. Without speaking a word, the two began fucking right there in that field. Right there in the epicenter of nature. Birds and deer watched them from the woods. A white woman and a black woman. A Rebel and a Yankee. Making love unabashedly in the middle of a meadow. 

They kissed, they hugged, they tongued, they groped. They giggled and playfully rolled around in the grass together like two frolicking children without a care in the world. Sometimes Mary was on top, sometimes Amanda was on top. Sometimes the colored troop would plunge her hand into Mary's grey trousers and finger her virgin pussy. Sometimes Mary would pull down Amanda's blue uniform pants and gently twist her clitoris with her thumb and fingers. A no-nonsense Yankee, Amanda fiercely tugged Mary's ashy coat open. A polite Southern belle, Mary diligently undid the three buttons of Amanda's azure tunic. The black woman's breasts looked like caramel, and tasted like it too. Meanwhile, Mary's milky white bust was almost overwhelmingly large, but Amanda tried her hardest at worshiping every cell of skin on her chest. A thick aroma hung in the air, stinging both women's tastebuds as they sucked, licked, and bit. Sour, salty, bitter. The two were hot and sweaty from having outrun an angry cannon. But they continued to perspire and sparkle gorgeously with moisture as they explored one another's bodies, cooked by sweltering arousal. By the time they orgasmed, they had known each other's bodies as well as their own. As Mary Belle's eyes, hands, and mouth toured every crease of Amanda's body, it became inevitable to stumble upon the whip scars streaking across her back. A depressing reminder that this woman she made love to was a freed slave. However, words didn't need to be exchanged to address the old trauma, and the lovemaking continued. Amanda's toes flexed while Mary's toes scrunched, their soles wrinkling and grinding into the grass as they were overwhelmed by angelic bliss. And even then, they didn't stop. 

The mulatto gal continued to caress Mary's G-spot with her fingertips, the Confederate continued to bite Amanda's breasts until they were riddled with hickies. They laid in that field for hours, making love for an eternity. They squirt until they couldn't squirt anymore, then they had dry orgasms until they couldn't have dry orgasms anymore. Their pussies were tender, sore, raw, and weak, having churned endlessly in merciless ecstasy. It felt less like a series of orgasms and more like one big endless orgasm. One big release of indescribable magnitude. Years of sexual repression, years of racial and political tension, all permanently discarded in a moment of empowerment. After an entire evening of squirming and wrestling in the grass, the two grew exhausted and finally stilled, unable to fuck anymore. All they could do was lay on top of each other and pant like tired dogs, looking weakly but passionately into one another's eyes. Amanda had irises that were brown and silky like her skin, while Mary Belle's were as blue as the sky. They spent a long while cuddling in the remains of their sweat-soaked fatigues, gaining their strength back slowly but surely in one another's arms. Then, after rising to their feet, holding hands, and taking a deep breath, they ran. When they couldn't run anymore, they walked. And when they couldn't walk anymore, they stayed the night in Charlottesville. Once the sun again shined down onto them, the two deserters took a stagecoach to the border state of West Virginia and never looked back at the war that tried and failed at tearing them apart. They hunkered down at a small farm in Pocahontas County and lived the rest of their lives there, together.


	14. The Holy Land

September 9, 1191.

Jerusalem, Israel.

It was a hot summer day in the Holy Land. The Third Crusade raged across the Middle East, leaving a trail of bodies in its wake. The Israeli badlands were beautiful to look at but grueling to trudge through. A small band of Crusaders drifted across miles of sun-cooked desert. These weren't just any Crusaders, however. They didn't belong to England, nor France, nor the Holy Roman Empire, not even the Kingdom of Jerusalem. No, these three women had sworn their lives to the Order of Solomon's Temple. The Knights Templar. They didn't identify with any mere country; they answered only to the Catholic Church itself. Normally, they would've been dressed from head-to-toe in suits of silver knight armor. But in this scorching heat, that would've boiled them alive, so they were instead stripped down to only legguards, armguards, and of course the iconic Templar helmet. 

Covering the rest of them were tattered tunics as white as Heaven's clouds that swayed behind them like regal capes, and their torsos were emblazoned with red cross emblems. Their exposed, muscular arms shined with sweat as they braved the merciless heat. The skyline of Zion could be seen in the distance, being ruled over by Islamic heretics. The Al-Aqsa Mosque and the Dome of the Rock were clearly towering over the mighty city, each building made of sandstone just as the desert that surrounded it. On a religious mission, the three Templars rode from Bethlehem to Jerusalem on horseback in a quest to provide reconnaissance for the Crusader Army. For the past century, the sacred city was a constant back-and-forth of sieges between the Christians and the Muslims, and the Crusaders were arranging for a third one. The sisterhood stopped in a slender valley to rest in the shade. 

_"Let us rest here, sisters,"_ one of the Templar scouts ordered, crawling down out of her saddle. 

_"Good idea, Sister Chevalier,"_ agreed another, too dismounting her horse. _"I was beginning to see mirages from this horrendous heat."_

_"Do not let your guards down,"_ the third and final Templar warned, still sitting high and mighty on her steed. _"Heretics infest the Holy Land like an eleventh plague. We mustn't fail the Pope in our mission to retake Jerusale-"_

An arrow landed in the Templar's neck. She yelped in agony and slid straight out of her horse's saddle, knocked out from shock and soon to die of blood loss.

_"HERETIC AMBUSH!"_ roared one of the Crusaders as they raised their shields to defend from the oncoming arrow rain. 

The surprise attack came from three Hashshashins perched up on the cliff, armed with bows that they used to shower the Templars with arrows. They blended into the searing sunlight and bleached sand with their white hooded robes. Some of the projectiles deflected harmlessly off the sheet metal, while others got their arrowheads buried in the red crucifixion adorned across the white shields. Startled by the sudden skirmish, two of the horses panicked and galloped off, their hooves thundering against the ground and kicking up dust clouds as they whinnied in fear. Their enemy's armor impenetrable, the Muslim cultists leapt down off their vantage points and took the skirmish to close-quarters. Their six brown boots hit the sand and they drew their scimitars, blades glaring in the Sun. 

Despite being outnumbered, the two Crusaders fearlessly charged their enemies, slashing their swords with religious zeal. Mademoiselle Chevalier had a one-on-one with an Assassin, while the bigger Templar juggled a fight with two. The dark valley was brightly lit by the countless sparks shed by the sword battle. One of the Catholic warriors feinted an attack and used the opening to slash an Arabian's chest open, sending her toppling to the ground bloodied and lifeless. Chevalier parried her Islamic counterpart's strike, then violently cut her down like a tree. She fell like one too, hitting the desert floor in a puddle of blood. The victorious Templar turned around and watched as her fellow Crusader was slain before her very eyes by the final Muslim. Through the slit of the Knight's helmet and from the shadow of the Assassin's drawn hood, their eyes met, scorching with hatred and xenophobia. Roaring in war cries, the two swordswomen charged each other. 

_"DEUS VULT!"_

_"ALLAHU AKBAR!"_

Sister Chevalier gave a running swing sideways, but the Arabian deflected with her scimitar. Sparks flew as the blades clashed over and over again in a fierce swordfight. The hooded Muslim raised her weapon high and brought it down like a mighty hammer onto the Catholic, who blocked it with her shield. The three-foot blade landed right on the red cross and the two clashed thunderously. With a brutal backhand, the Hashshashin knocked the Knight's shield straight out of her hands, leaving her defenseless. A cornered animal, the Crusader lunged her sword so hard that, when their blades met, the Muslim's was struck from her grasp. The Frenchwoman punctuated the attack with a swift kick to the gut, knocking her enemy back. Though she was disarmed, the Assassin still had some tricks up her sleeve. 

She clenched her fist and a Hidden Blade was unsheathed from one of her brown leather gauntlets. The blade might've been only a third of the length of Chevalier's, but the two were equally matched in the ensuing swordplay nonetheless. The pious militants fought, and fought, and fought, and fought, sparring for what felt like hours. The blood-rushing high of battle had begun to simmer down. Exhaustion started to overtake the two children of God as their muscles got sorer and sorer. The clanging of their swords meeting got weaker and quieter with every swing. And there was, of course, the sweltering heat of the Judean Desert that debilitated them by the second. Their religious extremism began slipping from their tired minds. They started to wonder what they were even fighting for. 

Finally, the Levantine gave out. She was trained for quick and professional assassinations, not long and grueling swordfights like the Knight was. She collapsed to her knees, suffering heat exhaustion and dehydration. The Templar had her at her mercy. She had just enough strength to raise her sword one last time and chop her head off with a single clean blow. However, instead of finishing her fallen enemy off, the Templar dropped the sword and let it clatter to the sand. She weakly lumbered over to her idle horse, fishing around in the saddlebag for a canteen. Meanwhile, the Assassin sat defeated on the ground, mere seconds from passing out from her raging fever and parched throat. Then, all of a sudden, the sweet taste of water touched her lips. She looked up. The Knight was gently pouring the flask into her mouth.


	15. Deus Vult

The cold, welcoming liquid swathed her shriveled tongue and rejuvenated her arid throat. But most of all, her heart began pounding and quivering with emotion. Surprise, confusion, flattery, gratitude, excitement. The fervor she felt in prime fighting condition quickly returned, but it was a wholesome affection, not an ugly ferocity. Madame Justine Chevalier sat down up against the sandy rockface along with the Assassin, too tired to stand anymore.

Her lips wet and her throat refreshed, Hafsa of the Assassins said clearly with a smirk and an Arabic accent, _"A Good Samitarian among the Crusaders? I hardly believe it."_

_"I practice what I preach."_ On the subject, the two disciples' minds began exploring the gospel of the Bible and the Quran. Justine looked at the four butchered corpses that surrounded them, a somber glimmer in her eye. _"Is Islam not a religion of peace?"_

_"Was Jesus not a pacifist?"_ Hafsa asked in retort. 

The Frenchwoman chuckled, the two at an ideological stalemate. _"You are right, Assassin. Both Christ and Muhammad preached love and forgiveness..."_

The words 'love and forgiveness' began resounding in the Hashshashin's mind. Her heart throbbed and fluttered in the body heat of this woman. She wanted more. Hafsa put her hand on Justine's knee, then began sliding her palm down her thigh. Her legs were thick, hot, and sweaty. Slightly tanned by the sun but still pasty compared to an Arab like Hafsa. The Assassin's fingers began exploring outside Justine's comfort zone, trickling down to her inner thigh. Justine wasn't sure to lock her legs protectively, or open them in acceptance. The Crusader gasped as Hafsa's touchy hand ventured all the way down to her crotch, gently stroking it through her tunic. The lap of her dove-colored skirt grew a damp stain.

_"But...! But...!-"_

_"I know,"_ Hafsa shushed. _"He'll forgive us."_

Hafsa lifted Justine's helm up, just for a couple inches and a couple seconds so she could plant a small but nourishing kiss upon her lips. Due to the white hood thrown over her head, the Assassin's eyes were shrouded in shadow. But the hazel skin of her luscious lips were certainly exposed. The Templar was dazed with passion and conflict. Hafsa laced her fingers through hers, holding her hand and guiding her out of the valley and into the sunlight. Both Heaven and Jannah looked down on the two as they made love proudly out in the open. Justine got down on all fours. The Assassin swept her white tunic to the side, revealing her ass. God, it was so moist and hot from the Sun. Hafsa clutched a couple squishy handfuls of it and spread those white cheeks as wide as they could go, revealing the two holes that lied between them. A quivering pussy and a winking asshole. The caramel Arab leaned in, opened wide, and began eating the pale Caucasian out with the same devout passion she tried to kill her with mere moments prior. Justine's cries of ecstasy reverberated inside her metal helm as she was rimmed excellently by the Hashshashin's slick, wiry tongue. It dragged up the vaginal lips and squirmed its way into the Crusader's tight anus, licking all ten of her creases. She could feel Hafsa's lips curl into a lecherous smile as they pressed tightly against her asshole. 

_"L-Lord forgive me!"_ Sister Chevalier begged, blushing with guilty pleasure. 

The Templar's arms and legs trembled, just barely holding herself up under the crushing burden of back-aching pleasure. Throat deep in the blasphemous rimjob, the Assassin fingertips sunk into the Crusader's gelatinous buttcheeks as they squeezed and groped them voraciously. Hafsa's tongue pried and wriggled inside Justine's rectum, reaching all the way into her colon so she could lick its tasty walls. The Hashshashin's palms began slapping down on Justine's cheeks, playfully spanking them. Every time, the Knight squeaked from the jolt of painful pleasure and pleasurable pain shooting up her spine. Her ass was soon littered with rosy red handprints, like sunburns in the shape of hands. The two beautiful globes of fat jiggled, rippled, and sloshed with every spank. The Assassin continued to make out with Justine's buttcrack hungrily, loudly slurping up every drop of anal lubricant she secreted. From beneath her helmet, the Crusader went cross-eyed and her tongue hung out of her mouth as she was fucked stupid by Hafsa's miraculous tongueplay. Then finally, the Templar came. And it was thunderous. Her pussy hissed as it squirted all over the Assassin's chin, dousing it in her liquid pleasure. 

_"Ohh! Ohhh! OHHH! **DEUS VUUULT!~**"_ she cried in God's name, seeing his face for a second as she experienced just a second of Heaven that she'd cherish for the rest of her life. 

Mind churning with post-coitus nirvana, the Templar's limbs gave out and she went slump in the sand, her ass adorably pointing up in the air as it was slicked in sweat and spit. Hafsa withdrew her tongue from the woman's fleshy cavern and wiped her chin, looking down at the satisfied Crusader with a smile. She laid one last kiss upon her hot, reddened buttocks before rising to a stand.

_"I'm going to have a lot of repentance to do when I get back to the Church,"_ Justine chuckled as the Hashshashin helped her stand.

_"We may live a life of sin, but Allah is most forgiving."_

_"Je vous remercie, ma petit chou-fleur,"_ the Knight gushed in romantic French as she embraced her new lover in a hug. 

After the exchange of affection, the Crusader re-entered the valley and climbed onto her horse, which was the only one brave enough to stay after the battle. The Assassin followed after her, crawling up into the saddle behind her. She wrapped her arm around the equestrian's waist and nuzzled her cheek into her back, hugging her from behind. The Templar whipped the horse's reigns and it trotted out the valley and across the Israeli desert, headed for the horizon. Snuggled together in the saddle, Justine and Hafsa happily rode off into the sunset.


	16. D-Day

June 6, 1944.

Normandy, France.

The weather was muggy, the atmosphere was miserable, and a deep pit lurked in Taylor's stomach. It felt like seasickness, but the sea was the least of her problems. She stood in one Higgins Boat of a whole fleet, approaching Omaha Beach at an agonizingly gradual pace. Taylor was among a platoon that belonged to the notorious 1st Infantry Division, "The Big Red One", but this didn't make her feel any more confident about her odds. Dogfights among bombers, fighter planes, and anti-aircraft guns raged in the murky clouds overhead between the USAF and the Luftwaffe. The English Channel was feisty that dreadful morning, and small tides washed up into the landing craft. Taylor could feel water soaking into her boots. 

_"THIRTY SECONDS!"_ alerted the crew-woman. 

Taylor flinched at the warning, finicky and edgy beyond description. Clenching her Thompson gun like a safety blanket, she dreaded the moment they would finally land, but counted every second in her head nonetheless. Thirty. Twenty-nine. Twenty-eight...

_"Alright, ladies,"_ briefed Lieutenant Bradley. _"When we land near the beach and the ramp drops, wade to the shore. Move from cover to cover and keep your head down until you get to the seawall. Once there, I'll see you at the shingle. Remember, we're the Bloody First; we can do this! No mission too difficult! No sacrifice too great! Duty first! Godspeed."_

...Five. Four. Three. Two. One. The LCVP came to a screeching halt, the ramp dropped open, and bullets immediately began pouring in like a flood. It was a massacre. Within seconds, half the boat's crew was bloodily cut down by merciless gunfire. Thank the Lord Taylor was in the back. God forgive her, but thank the Lord she was near the back... 

_"OVER THE SIDE, OVER THE SIDE!"_

The thought hadn't even occurred to her in her panic, but the second she registered those words, Taylor mustered all her strength to throw himself over the side of the boat. The deafening screams and roaring gunfire went muffled as her ears filled with red water. The moment of relative silence was comforting, but she instinctively leapt up to the surface to get a heave of air. Once the blurriness left her eyes, she could finally get a feel for her chaotic surroundings. The suppressive fire was coming from two German pillboxes perched on a cliff and looking over the beach like a couple of watchtowers. Taylor was still far from the shore, but was close enough so her soles could dig into the floor of the sea. She watched in shellshock as her comrades, by the dozens, were blown to bits by mortars or torn to shreds by machine-guns. 

She tried to block out the carnage but no matter where Taylor looked, no matter where Taylor turned, this godforsaken beach was ridden with suffering. It was like a nightmare she couldn't wake up from. It gave her a moment of clarity and a thousand yard stare. This is stupid. This is all so goddamned stupid. She was expected to charge directly into gunfire? What good would that solve, other than senseless suicide? Taylor would've deserted right then and there if she could've, but there was no way back. There was only forward. She swallowed her fear, gritted her teeth, and began wading toward the German fortifications, the water heavy on her legs, which were sore by the time she reached the beachhead. At the very least, she wasn't completely out in the open. Alongside her were logs tied up in tripod stances, while Omaha itself was littered with big X-shaped hunks of metal -- "hedgehogs". 

These obstacles were strategically placed by the Germans to keep tanks off the beach, but ironically enough, they provided just enough cover for Taylor to approach the sands without getting riddled with bullets. The second the water became only ankle-deep, she sprinted forward and dived behind the nearest hedgehog. Finally, she could breathe. With her back up against cover, she had a chance to look away from the bloodbath surrounding her and instead reflect upon the harsh waters that had carried her to this awful place. Fuck these seas. Fuck this beach. Fuck this war. Taylor squeaked in fear as a bullet struck the huge jack she cowered behind with a "ping!" that rattled it like a tuning fork. She was torn out of her miserable reflection, back into battle. 

_"THIS SHORE IS PRE-SIGHTED FOR MORTAR FIRE!"_ Lieutenant Bradley warned her surrounding troops. _"IF YOU STAY HERE, YOU'RE DEAD!"_

Taylor rolled her eyes in sickened exhaustion. When would this nightmare end?! So it was either stay on the shore and get blown to smithereens, or sprint to the seawall and get mowed down by a machine-gun. Well, her corpse would look a lot prettier with a bullet hole in it instead of a mortar shell, so she picked the latter. Taylor took a deep breath and leapt out of cover, running for her life up Omaha Beach. She snaked through hedgehogs and jumped over corpses; it was like an obstacle course thought up by one depraved drill sergeant. Just as her superior had promised, the coastline behind her was battered by artillery mere moments after she abandoned it, so it was like outrunning a fireball. The sky whistled hellishly before shells struck the sand, washing a dust storm across the beach to shroud Taylor with. One of the mortar shots actually landed a few meters in _front_ of the charging soldier, blasting an impact crater into ground. She dived into the makeshift foxhole just as one of the German machine-gunners noticed her and opened fire. 

She curled up into her helmet like a tortoise's shell, her heart almost bursting out of her chest after having narrowly avoided death dozens of times in the span of about a minute. Once her brain stopped buzzing with adrenaline, she peeked out over the lip of the crater and noticed the seawall mere paces away from her. It was an insurmountable mound of sand stretching across the entire beach, wreathed by thick coils of barbed wire. She swallowed her fear, pulled herself up out of the foxhole, and made another crazed sprint up Omaha, landing behind the dyke. Er, dike. There were two fellow soldiers at her shoulders; Bradley shouting coordinates into a field radio and a corporal who was piecing together a Bangalore torpedo. The soldier peeked out of cover for just one second and was immediately met with a bullet through the helmet. Taylor whimpered and gawked in fear as a fresh corpse landed right in front of her.


	17. We Shall Fight on the Beaches

_"Private Allen!"_ Bradley ordered Taylor. _"Pick up that banger and breach this seawall!"_

Eyes watering, Taylor carefully but quickly pried the torpedo from the soldier's cold, dead hands. And with furiously shaky wrists of her own, she tried assembling the Bangalore by snapping the sleeves together, but fumbled with the parts and dropped the back end. She reached for it but Bradley grabbed it first and helpfully plugged it into Allen's half.

_"You can do this!"_ she sincerely encouraged before returning to her radio call. 

_"Okay...okay..."_ Taylor muttered to herself.

_No mission too difficult...No sacrifice too great...Duty first._ She looked up at the seawall's horizon and yanked out the back-end of the torpedo. It immediately began hissing and smoking, and it became clear Taylor had just struck a match. A match rigged with 9 pounds of TNT. She chucked the Bangalore up and it got entangled with the barbed wire. 

_"FIRE IN THE HOLE!"_ Allen shouted as she skittered away from the sparkling charge. 

It exploded in a storm of fire and sand that rained down onto her, each grain like a raindrop. A hole was blasted into the seawall, and her fellow soldiers immediately filled up that hole like a leak in a dam. Most were gunned down straight away, and Taylor almost felt responsible for their messy deaths. 

_"GO! GO! GO!"_ Bradley shouted as she led her women further up the beach. 

Cradling her Thompson, Taylor dashed across the shingle, dodging gunfire as it rained down onto her. Through the screen of sand and dust being kicked up, she could see the bunker's wall growing out of the rockface. She ran like never before to get there, burying into the bluff so hard she bruised her shoulder. She looked directly up and saw the barrel of an MG-42 continuing to cut down the fresh meat at the shoreline. It was surreal. First she was down there. Now she was up here; under the gunner's nose, finally out of her line-of-sight. A handful of other GIs reached the bluff too, and Taylor followed her three sisters-in-arms up the rocky trail of a steep ridge. The four US troops had hiked up the cliff and reached its peak, greeted by the back entrance of the bunker. Like a disturbed anthill, Axis soldiers spilled out to defend their home. They were dressed in grey fatigues, black Stahlhelms, and leather boots. These were the first Germans Taylor had ever seen in person. She ducked down behind a rock and opened fire. MP-40s clashed with Thompsons as the cliff staged a firefight between the Wehrmacht and the US Army. Between Rommel's women and Eisenhower's women. The Tommy gun's recoil kicked her in the shoulder as she unloaded on anything that was silver and moved. The barrel smoldered by the time she stopped firing. She was the only survivor. Three dead Germans and three dead Americans, leaving only Taylor stranded atop the smoky, blood-splattered bluff. The only way was forward. 

Taylor looked down at her hands. They were stained with dirt and bloodied with gashes, grime lurking underneath each her nails. She reloaded her SMG and rose to a stand so she could reluctantly soldier on into the dank, dim confines of the bunker. Alone. Now that she was indoors, the nonstop crackling gunfire that haunted the battlefield seemed echoing and distant. Rusty pipes, wooden crates, and metal shelves lined the concrete corridors. The fort was grazed by artillery, causing a tremor that made Taylor stumble. Dust flaked from the ceiling while the light-bulbs swayed and flickered weakly. She cautiously marched through the small fortress, checking her corners as she got closer and closer to the buzzing of the MG-42 that had her pinned down not too long ago. Before she knew it, she made it. She had finally flanked the machine-gun nest where a Wehrmacht soldier cut down Allied soldiers by the dozens with Hitler's Buzzsaw. The gunner felt Taylor's presence in the room, abandoning her MG-42 so she could turn around and reach for her Luger. In a knee-jerk reaction, Taylor lit her up, and the pillbox went silent. The bunker had been captured. Of course, the battle was far from over. Normandy was a big region. Hell, not even Omaha was fully captured yet, thanks to the other bunker. But regardless, Taylor did her job as a soldier, and thus surged with an exhilarating sense of pride and patriotism. It was especially refreshing after a nightmare like that. She turned around and was almost met with a blade to the face. 

The little shit had been hiding in a corner, waiting to pounce this whole time. Taylor dropped her Thompson to catch the woman's wrist and hold her at bay after she lunged with a combat knife. It was the last defender of the bunker. This late into the battle, she had no loaded service rifle, no loaded sidearm. Just her knife and her grit, willing to fight to the bitter end. Taylor tumbled to the ground with the German on top of her, and they continued to wrestle fiercely. Taylor punched the Kraut in the scowl, bruising her cheek and bloodily busting her lip. Axis repaid the favor by slashing her face. With one hand, Taylor kept the blade from in between her eyes as the German pressed down on her. With the other, she reached out for the Tommy gun she had dropped, but it was just out of reach. Then she remembered the pistol she had tucked away in her holster. Taylor put the sole of her boot on the German's belly and kicked as hard as she could, launching her off. Her hands free, Taylor could reach for her M1911, pull the hammer back, and aim it at the German as she laid on the floor, the wind knocked out of her. However, unlike all the other enemies she's mowed down, this time Taylor hesitated. She had noticed a tiny glint that stuck out in the dim, ugly bunker. A wedding ring, around one of the German's pale fingers. It was simple, featureless, and not very colorful. But there's always a beauty to wedding rings, no matter the design. That was all it took to remind Taylor that this was a human life she was about to take.

_"...Well?"_ the German asked impatiently, stone-cold expression and deadpan voice despite staring down the barrel of a gun. _"Shoot me already."_


	18. Omaha Bunker

_"...What about your husband?"_

Those were not the words the German was expecting. To be the effective, merciless soldier her country desperately needed her to be, she had blocked out any memory of her civilian life and replaced it with brutality and nationalism. She pretended she had nothing to lose as an excuse to be fearless. It was almost as if she had developed a split personality, between soldier and woman. 

She spit some blood to the side to get the metallic taste out of her mouth. _"What about him?"_

_"You're alright with leaving him a widower?"_ The more Taylor spoke, the more obvious her Chicagoan accent became to rival the Kraut's German.

_"Marrying him wasn't my choice,"_ the jaded soldier spoke frankly. _"My parents pressured me into it."_

_"So you don't love him?"_

_"Well...The truth is,"_ she muttered, unable to look Taylor in the eye as a blush crept into her snowy Aryan cheeks. _"...I actually think I...like girls...I'm sure I'd be considered a freak in America all the same, but in Germany...I'd be gassed to death in labor camps. I guess he's a...what do you Americans call it? A 'beard'."_

_"...I'm considered a freak for liking girls too..."_

_"...What?"_

_"In seventh grade, when my dad found out I had a crush on a girl, he broke a beer bottle over my head. Getting drafted into the Army was the best thing to happen to me. Anything to get out of that shithole."_

_"I...I thought I was the only one. I thought I was alone. Homosexuality is considered a mental illness in Germany. And the only cure is death."_

_"Who am I to argue with science, but..."_ Taylor's fingertips gently brushed over the back of the German's hand, tingling it with warm sensations. _"It feels so natural, doesn't it?"_

_"...Took the words right out of my mouth."_

Said mouth pounced onto Taylor's, whom reciprocated with her tongue. This was their only chance to indulge in one another's deep, repressed desires. Society restricted them from their sexualities, and society had no place on a battlefield. They jumped on this once-in-a-lifetime opportunity and began making love on the bunker floor. Frau Schneider slipped off her ring and put it to the side, renouncing Herr Schneider and returning to Hannah Schultz. Her fingers bared, she sent two of them down to Taylor's soaked groin, underneath the waistband of her green cargo pants. The pair of fingertips were slow and gentle, one for her left lip and one for the right. They rode their way up and down her labia. Taylor's legs shuddered in bliss as they glistened with wetness. Finally, after enough teasing, Hannah penetrated Taylor. Her fingers slipped into her womanhood and began sensually raking her insides with elegance. They stroked and massaged Taylor's inner walls, squelching loudly as they reached in deeper and deeper. The further she got in, the wetter and looser became of Taylor's pussy. At first, the Aryan was steady and tender, but the pace gradually picked up. And with the rising intensity of Hannah's fingering came the rising volume of Taylor's sounds of pleasure. First, they were hushed whimpers and shudders. But they quickly turned to unrestrained moans and groans. The German silenced her enemy's cries with a kiss. Her tongue ventured as deeply into her body as her fingers did. It wasn't long until Hannah was officially fingerblasting Taylor, masturbating her as hard as she could. 

She plunged her pussy with fiery passion, rivaled only by her tongue as it tussled with the American's inside her mouth. Hannah could feel screams of pleasure leaping down into her throat, muffled against her lips. Taylor's pussy tightened around Hannah's fingers as it cramped and contracted fiercely. An orgasm of unfathomable magnitude denonated inside the Allied soldier's belly like she swallowed an artillery shell. Every one of her atoms, from her head to her toe, was pricked with ecstasy as the muscular spasm twisted her mind, body, and soul in ways she once thought impossible. Pulling out of the kiss, Taylor proudly let an overwhelmed howl escape her throat, echoing across the entire bunker. Every soldier on the battlefield heard it, over all the gunfire and explosions. After writhing in ecstasy for what felt like an eternity too short, the adrenaline had finally drained from her, expelled with her every laborious breath. She felt paralyzed from the waist down, thoroughly exhausted by the mindblowing climax. Hannah withdrew her fingers, both glistening with the profuse amount of juice Taylor had leaked. She popped them into her own mouth, sucking the fingers and savoring the tangy taste they carried. She looked Taylor in the eye as she did so, a seductive and foxy glare in her baby blue irises. After catching her breath, Taylor rose from a prone position to a sitting posture, with her calves tucked underneath her thighs. She squeezed Hannah's hand excitedly to accentuate her ensuing point.

_"Let's run away,"_ Taylor proposed, ranting in a romantic fever. _"Forget about your husband. Forget about our countries. Forget about this war. Let's run away and never look back!"_

A thousand thoughts raced through Hannah's mind at once. She had been sworn to the Wehrmacht for four months. She had been sworn to her husband for three years. She had been sworn to Germany for her entire life. She couldn't just abandon it all for a girl she just met...Could she? Her household was loveless. Her army was ruthless. Her country was hopeless. But when Hannah looked into the eyes of this girl, her soul was rejuvenated with love, ruth, and hope. Hannah made her decision, punctuated by a quick, leaping smooch on Taylor's lips.

_"Let's do it."_

And so, they did. They escaped out the back of the bunker, never once disconnecting hands. Hannah left her wedding ring behind on the pillbox's floor and never gave it another thought. As the Americans and the Germans were distracted in their endless fight on Omaha, Taylor and Hannah relinquished their nationalities and slipped away into Normandy's countryside.


	19. Safehouse Raid

November 21, 2014.

Damascus, Syria.

A four-woman squad of British commandos sat in the cockpit of a Black Hawk utility helicopter soaring through Syrian airspace. They were deployed by the 22nd Regiment of the Special Air Service, and were each outfitted in counter-terrorist fatigues. Masked by respirators with hoods thrown over their heads, with typical army equipment like flightsuits, gloves, ballistic vests, and boots. Every article of clothing was black enough to blend them into the Middle Eastern night. Miscellaneous gear included Heckler & Koch weaponry like MP5 primaries and USP sidearms with suppressors screwed onto the barrels, as well as M84 stun grenades and undrawn night-vision goggles. Their suits were sealed and airtight, since the terrorist group they were targeting were infamous for their chemical gas attacks.

The United Kingdom had recently launched Operation Shader in its intervention in the Syrian Civil War. Terrorist cells infested the Levant like pests, and special forces like the British SAS were dispatched to exterminate them. One of these cells operated just outside of Damascus, commanded by A'isha al-Alwani. She wasn't quite the caliph, but still a high-ranking lieutenant of the militant group. Assassinating her was a prime priority for Her Majesty's Armed Forces. The sands of the Syrian Desert looked like a navy ocean as it was bathed in moonlight. The landscape looked further blue thanks to a thunderstorm, as the operation was timed to be masked by rain. This was to drown out the chopper's approach and give the commandos the element of surprise. After the Black Hawk climbed a moonlit dune, its pilot spotted a military outpost in the distance and tuned into Command's channel.

_"Command, this is Sappho Three-Six,"_ she spoke her callsign into her headset. _"We have visual on target, ETA thirty seconds."_

_"Copy, Three-Six,"_ confirmed the director of the SAS.

_"Lock and load,"_ Sergeant Morris ordered her squad.

The counter-terrorists all put on their gas-masks and took the safeties off their suppressed submachine guns as they readied for their wetwork.

_"Green light!"_ Sappho Three-One alerted once she hovered right above al-Alwani's safehouse. _"Go! Go! Go!"_

Two black cables were thrown out the open cockpit. The squad clenched their fists, buckled their boots, and fast-roped down out the Black Hawk in perfect synchronization, hitting the sandy floors surrounding the building. They cocked their MP5SDs and jogged to the compound's front door, huddling around it in breaching formation.

_"Weapons free,"_ Morris authorized. _"Clean house."_

While the helicopter left the scene, Private Williams let go of her SMG so it hung by its sling as she reached for a stun grenade on her belt.

_"Flashbang out,"_ she warned as she unpinned the grenade, opened the door a crack to toss it in, and quickly shut it back.

The operatives could hear muffled and confused shouts in Arabic from the other side of the wall before an explosion. Williams kicked the door down with the strength of a battering ram and the squad spilled in with tactical speed and grace. Three silenced bullets were shot. Three blinded and deafened targets were neutralized. The one-sided firefight was over in less than five seconds.

_"Tangos down. Clear."_

A trio of cleanly executed corpses riddled the floor, having barely registered what happened before their brains were blown out. The insurgents' uniforms were makeshift and thrown together. Military gear stolen from the Syrian Army like bulletproof vests, cargo pants, and combat boots was mixed with civilian wear like shemaghs and jackets. A lot of good those vests did them.

_"Our position is compromised,"_ Morris stated matter-of-factly. _"Williams, give us an edge and kill the lights."_

_"Roger,"_ the private copied as she crept into a nearby closet, where a breaker box was installed. _"Going dark."_

She grabbed its handle and cranked its lever downwards, deactivating every light in the outpost and flooding its interior with black. Every SAS operative lowered their pair of night-vision goggles over their eyes, flushing the darkness away and filtering everything with green. The NVG's battery activating generated a distinct, high-voltage squeal. They cautiously swept the compound inch-by-inch, checking their corners and checking their shots. The rules of engagement were weapons free, so the commandos were very trigger-happy in their raid of the safehouse. They checked every room, they checked every closet, they checked under every bed. Keeping her eyes peeled, Williams noticed a crack behind a bookcase. She grabbed the shelf by its frame and pushed it a few feet aside to reveal it to be hiding a secret passage. It stretched miles down into an underground tunnel, all surfaces made of dirt-caked rock.

_"Look at this, ma'am,"_ Williams alerted her squad of her discovery.

Morris approached the hidden passage. _"Al-Alwani is probably hiding down there like a rat. She can't have gotten far. Let's advance,"_ she ordered, raising her MP5. _"Stay frosty."_

The SAS squad poured into the tunnel network one-by-one. In a single file line with Morris taking point, they carefully hiked through a web of subterranean corridors. The tunnels only seemed to get darker, tighter, and more claustrophobic the deeper they got in. The network shook and rattled as artillery pounded the surface in an unrelated skirmish above, since Syria was an endless war-zone. The ceiling flaked and crumbled, about to cave in at any moment. But the SAS commandos continued marching fearlessly. That was until Morris felt a razor-thin wire cut into the ankle of her boot, followed by the distinct click of an IED being activated.

_"**TRIP-WIRE!**"_


	20. Wetwork

Williams was on the ground, with crippling tinnitus and the wind knocked out of her. Her goggles were as cracked as her ribs and her BDU was tattered. She groaned in dazed confusion, caught in a cloud of dust and debris. But even through the sandy powder, she could see the corpses of her squadmates. Some were gruesomely dismembered by the blast, others were riddled with shrapnel. Either way, they were all stone-dead, or concussed and soon to bleed out, leaving Williams as the sole survivor. Morris's corpse laid ontop of her, having taken the brunt of the explosion. Williams had to shove the 150 pound hunk of muscle, bone, and gear off of her just to catch a breath. The mine detonation had caused a cave-in, trapping Williams a mile deep in the collapsed tunnels of a swarming terrorist hideout. 

It was like she was stranded in an angered ant colony. All she could do was weakly pull herself up out of the sand and get her bearings. As if things couldn't get any worse, a figure dived out the smokescreen of dust and darkness, lashing at Williams with a combat knife. Through reflexive muscle memory, the Brit was able to grab the terrorist's wrist to stave the bitch off from gutting her. She plunged her other hand down into her holster and pulled out a loaded USP, blasting the insurgent in the face at point-blank range. But by some "miracle", the bullet merely grazed her. If Williams had aimed just a centimeter to the left, that would've been a clean headshot. That didn't matter anymore now though. Her weapon was already knocked from her hand.

_"Kalb gharbi!"_ the vengeful terrorist growled as she wrestled with the commando, pinning her up against the rocky wall. 

In the desperate struggle, Williams grabbed the insurgent by her desert-colored shemagh and tore it from her head. She was a handsome Arabic woman, angelic face contrasting with her blackened heart, wearing a gritted expression and a clean, bloody flesh wound streaking across her right cheek. Williams recognized her. Her eyes went wide behind her cracked goggles as she ID'd the target. It was none other than A'isha al-Alwani, the commander she was dispatched to assassinate. Williams was so taken aback that it let al-Alwani break out of her grapple and punch her across the face hard enough to ground her. She was already teetering on unconsciousness due to the IED, so getting haymakered in the head put her down for good. Now she was at the mercy of this brutal terrorist cell...

Five minutes later, the camera began rolling. It was mounted atop a tripod, staring down at Williams as still she laid unconscious on the tunnel floor, hands tied behind her back and illuminated by a work light. Two terrorists were stood behind the camera with their arms crossed, looking like enforcers, or bodyguards, for al-Alwani. A gloved hand reached down into the shot and grabbed Williams by the hood, pulling her limp body up into a kneeling position. The grasp belonged to al-Alwani, and she clenched a bloodied machete in the opposite hand. She tore off Williams's gas-mask, revealing her beautiful, peacefully resting likeness. She was rudely awoken with a harsh slap across the cheek, staining her pretty little face with a red handprint. The counter-terrorist gasped, hissed, and panted as she realized she was the helpless star of a beheading video. Al-Alwani seized Williams by the back of her neck and forced her upright.

_"Look, Western dogs!"_ al-Alwani hatefully snarled while addressing the camera, proudly presenting Williams. _"Look at the consequences of your arrogant, intrusive decisions! Syria belongs to ISIS, al-Qaeda, and the Taliban! Our actions do not concern America, Britain, or Russia! You've forced us to make an example of this British soldier!"_

Williams could feel the machete's blade pressing against her throat. It would only take a pascal more of pressure to slice her neck open. Williams wanted to be stoic and defiant, but couldn't help but tense up and clench her eyes as she braced for a morbid death. However, death didn't come. It was like a mock execution with a machete. Al-Alwani sheathed the oversized knife and swung around to menacingly loom over Williams, turning her back on the camera. 

She chuckled in a scoff. _"You don't even deserve the glory of my blade, pig. I will take your honor instead..."_

Al-Alwani unbuckled her belt, unbuttoned her trousers, and unzipped her fly. She wiggled her butt out of her cargo pants, inadvertantly mooning the camera, and let them fall to her ankles. This made it obvious she was mostly leg, thanks to her long, silky thighs and calves, held together by her big beautiful bubble butt. It was the center of the shot, after all. Her Kurdish heritage gifted her a peanut butter complexion that made everything below her waist look alluring and juicy. Williams gazed up in fear at the exposed vagina that hung in her face like a shadow.

_"GAH!"_ she yelped, trying to crawl away as the pussy encroached upon her. _"WHAT THE BLOODY HELL ARE YOU-!"_

Al-Alwani clutched Williams by her scraggly black hair and forced her mouth onto her pussy. Their lips met like a kiss. And a very wet, sloppy kiss at that. 

_"MMNHFF!"_

Al-Alwani shuddered at the vibrations of Williams's struggles rippling across her fleshy chasm. Her muffled screams sounded like moans, which got al-Alwani hot and bothered. 

_"EAT, infidel!"_ she demanded as she continued pressing the British operative's head down on her crotch. _"Show the world what happens when you mess with Allah's disciples!"_

Williams's tongue struggled to pry itself from the terrorist leader's vulva, but it was wedged. It flicked and writhed and scraped her vaginal insides, so she choked on the acidic taste of al-Alwani's soggy walls. The harder Williams resisted, the more she unwittingly succeeded in getting al-Alwani off. A cheap and filthy ecstasy surged up the insurgent's reproductive tract and reached her very core. She was tempted to melt as if she was making love to a mistress, but she kept in mind that she wasn't; she was raping a sex slave. Al-Alwani maintained a stern and dominant posture to keep the atmosphere from dipping from horrific to erotic. This was supposed to be a threat video, after all. She had to bite her lip multiple times as to not let a moan slip. Williams's skin burned a rosy red with the crippling humiliation once it sunk into her: she was going to go down in history as a terrorist's bitch. This recording would be published on the internet, become a viral video and icon of the War on Terror, and be shown to thousands, possibly even millions. 

All she could do was whimper meekly before submitting to her captor. Then finally, after a long and grueling session of juicy oral sex, al-Alwani climaxed. To call it a "squirt" wouldn't do it justice. It was more akin to a hose-like gush, spewing from her Skene's gland with torrential force for seconds on end. The poor girl was dehydrated by the time she finished. This wasn't the wetwork Williams was expecting...Al-Alwani had to clench her eyes and bite her tongue to restrain her howl of pleasure, though she couldn't help but breathe heavily in the afterglow. She let go of Williams in her moment of weakness, allowing the flustered woman to plummet to the floor in a coughing puddle of shame and defeat. What will her father think... Al-Alwani sighed contentedly as she rubbed her sore and tender pussy, getting her fingers slick with squirt. She stepped out of her cargo pants, turned around, and approached the camera bottomless, clutching it by its frame like she was trying to strangle the viewer. 

_"Never forget this, infidels! If the West continues sending their soldiers to the Levant, this is what will become of them! Stay away!"_

Al-Alwani masked the camera lens with her palm, ending the recording. After the video was leaked across the world, signup rates for armies fighting in Syria mysteriously skyrocketed...


End file.
